Fallout
by keru.m
Summary: Harm and Mac are forced to deal with the fallout from Paraguay. A story in eight parts.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: Don't own'em

A/N: This takes place in season 9, at the tail end of Harm's stint with the CIA. Rather heavy, since that's pretty much unavoidable in this time period, especially if one is looking for resolution to the screwed up plotline that was shoved down our throats. I feel I should preface this story by saying that I don't believe in assigning blame to either of the characters for their behaviours – that's not the point of the story –, they are after all human and we all know how messy that can be. Personally, I welcomed a move towards more complex characterizations on the show, but was thoroughly disappointed that it was so dismally handled by TPTB. I only say this because readers do tend to take this stuff rather personally, and feel strongly about their views regarding characterization. As for me, I think the story line was an attempt by TPTB to follow the general trend at the time to make TV shows darker, more morally ambiguous and threatening in the post 9/11 environment. But this isn't a sociology essay nor does it aspire to be, so I'll end it there.

Don't worry, though: the story does aspire to be an H/M fic. All will be well.

Any inaccuracies – dates, times, names – are mine. Unless they're so egregious as to offend the spirit of the story, pretend they don't matter.

Lots of swearing in some parts, I'm just putting up a general disclaimer now.

And finally a shout out to lotilu for getting the wheels turning, and doc for being so helpful despite her busy schedule.

* * *

**Fallout **

Part 1

--

Langley, VA

Friday 0857

Local

Harm sat across from Kershaw in a CIA briefing room, wearing the veneer of indifference he'd worked so hard at perfecting. Knowing her penchant for punctuality, he'd be seeing her in – he glanced at the clock on the wall – less than three minutes. He hadn't seen her in four months, three weeks, six days, 18 hours and – he glanced at the clock – 48 minutes. Not that he was counting. Not that he even cared. He had heard from her – 16 messages on his answering machine. But his pride and his hurt would not allow him to return her calls. She was the one who said _never_. She was the one who was sharing a bed with asshole Webb. She was the one who dismissed seven years of history with one word. Why the hell should he call her back.

Less than one minute, now. She'd walk through those doors. He wondered what she looked like. Had she changed much? He'd gotten pretty good at reading her body language over the years, and part of him hoped that she would walk through that door unaccompanied by the efficient click of heels against tile or that look of squared-away self-assurance she wore so well. He hoped she'd walk in there with the slight slump of her shoulders that was a tell-tale sign of personal defeat no matter how well she tried to hide it. He hoped she'd walk into the room and he'd see nothing but regret and self-censure in her eyes. She'd cut him apart and left him to rot, alone. He shouldn't be the only one to suffer. Not that he was suffering. He didn't care.

The doorknob turned. The latch clicked. The door was pushed open. And in walked Sarah MacKenzie.

He sat a little straighter in his chair, without intending to. Their eyes caught. And held.

He kept his face an impassive mask as he searched hers. He could see no slump of her shoulders – in fact, she looked unrecognizably hardened, more angular than he'd seen her be in years – and he could not tell what was behind her eyes. Either he'd lost his ability to read her, or she'd worked on her poker face. And she looked more beautiful than he even remembered. He willed his heart not to constrict. Damnit. Damn her.

She broke eye contact with him, and nodded at Kershaw as she shut the door behind her. She took a seat on the only other chair in the room, next to Harm.

"Colonel." The agent seated across from them nodded at her.

"Sir." She acknowledged. She then turned to Harm, and gave a brisk nod. He saw something soften in her eyes, saw an unvoiced pain for a brief instant before she turned away. It left him feeling like he was suspended in mid-air, in mid-moment unable to move. Stuck. He forced his gaze away from her, and towards Kershaw. Damnit, he thought he was over the ridiculous push and pull that had always existed between them. Damnit.

"These files have the pertinent facts relating to your mission." Kershaw began, and Harm made himself pay attention to the briefing and not the woman sitting next to him.

"Word on the street is that Sadik Fahd is done licking his wounds and is putting out feelers in preparation for his next move. He was last confirmed seen meeting with this man, on the left. Bilaal Mansoor." Kershaw pointed at the projection screen behind him. A grainy black and white photo showed two men conversing across a small table, at an outdoor café.

"Mansoor is known to have links to a collection of non-profit agencies operating on U.S. soil that transfer funds to Islamic extremist groups in the Middle East under the guise of charitable donations. Not all these groups are violent or militant, but some are."

"We suspect that you, Colonel, have caught Sadik's interest. He's been looking into you, digging into your background."

Harm looked up sharply from his file, first at Kershaw then more cautiously at Mac. She didn't look too perturbed by the news. Instead, she nodded without looking up from the papers she was perusing. Her cavalier response caught Harm off guard. Did she already know? Had Webb told her? It was either that, or she really had developed one hell of a poker face. His uncertainty over her reaction irritated him, so he turned his attention back to the briefing.

"We expect him to somehow make an advance on you. We don't know if his plan is to hurt you – exact revenge for Paraguay – or if he's simply curious."

Harm kept his eyes fixed on the papers in front of him, studiously avoiding the heavy sense of dread that was sinking his heart into his toes.

"Intel on Fahd makes us suspect the latter, especially since he doesn't seem particularly interested in Webb, Rabb or Galindez. Fahd is known for being cruel, calculating and focused. If he is looking into the Colonel out of curiosity, that means he is distracted. It could work in our favour."

Harm shifted slightly in his chair. The feeling of dread multiplied tenfold. He could sense where this was going. He eyed Mac out of the corner of his eye. She seemed completely unaffected by the briefing, beyond the stubborn set of her jaw. What was wrong with her? This was unlike her. He turned his focus back on the file in front of him, angry that he even cared about her reaction, or lack thereof.

"One of our informants in Mansoor's inner circle confirms that Fahd is looking for funding for his next operation. He also confirms Fahd will be arriving in D.C. tomorrow to meet with potential funders, and will stay for three days. That meeting is only scheduled for his last day here." The agent turned all his attention on Mac. "We think he's coming early to check in on you, Colonel. We want to catch him when he does."

"You're using her as bait?" Harm stared at Kershaw, incredulous and angry, and barely able to conceal it.

Kershaw returned Harm's hard stare with an impassive one of his own, and ignored the question.

"We don't want to tip him off, so obvious surveillance isn't a possibility. Since you and the Colonel were partners for so many years, it isn't a stretch to make Fahd believe you spend a lot of time together." He turned to speak to Mac. "We'll have four agents within running distance of you at all times. This," he handed her a small remote, "is your safety button. Press that and within three minutes, someone will be there."

Harm bit the inside of his cheek to keep from exploding, and tried to put on his most reasonable tone. "Three minutes isn't much of a response time." He ground out the words.

"That's why you're there, Rabb." Kershaw replied easily. Harm wanted to strangle him.

"If you're not sure about this…" Mac faced Harm, addressing him softly. Harm turned an angry glare on her, and she trailed off. Those were the first words she'd spoken to him and she was doubting him? She held his irate glare, that stupid impregnable façade of hers back in place. What the hell was going on in that head of hers.

He turned back to Kershaw – to hell with her and her opinions. His tone was clipped. "What else do I need to know?"

Kershaw leaned back in his chair and eyed Harm thoughfully. "Everything is in those files." He nodded to the folder Harm had clenched between his fingers.

"Don't change your daily routine too much, Colonel." The agent turned to Mac. "We don't know when Fahd will be coming in. Rabb will be at your apartment tomorrow morning, 0600. Our agents will be in place starting at 2300 tonight."

Kershaw paused and straightened in his chair. He clasped his hands in front of him, on his desk.

"Colonel," He began in a gentler tone that even Harm, who was still seething at Mac's implication that he couldn't handle his job, noticed. "The Agency, and your country, thanks you for volunteering to come on board this mission."

Harm fought from rolling his eyes. They should do more than thank her, given the last time she'd agreed to get 'on board' a CIA mission. Although she did get her very own spook to personally 'board' out of that fiasco. And why the hell didn't they thank him? It cost him his bloody career. And they were making him do it all over again. Harm swallowed his anger at the thought.

"I know how the Agency works." Her words held a calm, measured hostility that surprised Harm. He turned to watch her as she spoke. She was looking Kershaw in the eye. "This operation would have gone ahead with or without my cooperation. I happen to like knowing when someone puts my life on the line."

She stood up without waiting for Kershaw to call the meeting to an end. "If that's all."

Kershaw nodded. Mac turned on her heel and left without sparing so much as a glance at Harm.

It was a great poker face, Harm thought as he watched her leave the room, but he could see some cracks in it. Good.

--

Mac's Apartment

Saturday

0558 Local

Harm stood outside her door. He hadn't been here in a long time. He thought he'd never have reason to come back. He shook his head; the best laid plans…

He waited until his watch said 0600 on the dot before knocking, then mentally counted the seconds until the door opened just so he had something to do other than think about her.

The door swung open to reveal Mac, dressed in jeans and a white shirt. He wasn't drinking in the sight of her in civvies. He wasn't revelling in the familiar view of her opening the door to him as she had done countless times in the past. He was on a job.

"Morning." He schooled his tone to disinterested calm.

"Harm." She sounded unsure of herself.

"So you haven't forgotten my name." He couldn't help but goad as he removed his coat.

She sighed. "Would you like some coffee? It's a fresh pot." She turned away and headed for the kitchen.

He wanted to say no, just to be difficult. Instead he followed her and peered through her kitchen windows to see if he could locate the agents who were supposedly within running distance.

"Here." She pushed a cup of coffee along the counter, towards him. "They're at opposite ends of the street." She nodded at the window. "Dark blue sedan up the street near the traffic light. And guy reading the paper on the deck of the yellow house six doors down. There's bread in the fridge and bagels in the cupboard if you want any."

He took a sip of the coffee, fully expecting it to be too strong, but was surprised to find it drinkable. He eyed her questioningly.

She caught his look and shrugged.

They stood in her kitchen, silently drinking coffee for what felt like a long and miserable lifetime to him.

"So, what were your plans for the day?" He did have a job to do, and he couldn't do it in silence.

"Grocery shopping. Laundry. Cleaning."

If they were at any other people in the same situation, or if they were at any other point in their relationship before Paraguay, he would've playfully accused her of using a highly trained CIA operative to do her housework.

Instead, he nodded. "We can head out whenever you're ready."

She put her mug in the sink with more force than necessary. He could see the tension in her bearing. Definitely cracks in her armour. Good.

"This is ridiculous." She mumbled as she rinsed her mug. "Sadik won't come after me in a grocery store."

He ignored her, put his mug down on the counter and walked out of the kitchen. "I'll wait by the door."

He was about to grab his coat, when he heard her come up behind him.

"Harm." Her tone was firm. "Wait."

It took all his effort to swallow his irritation. He turned around to face her, ready for battle. He crossed his arms over his chest and looked down at her, wearing his veneer of indifference. He waited.

"Harm …" She hesitated, looked away from him and studied the floor.

He watched as she regrouped. He squared his shoulders; she could not hurt him anymore.

"Harm. We have to spend this weekend together and we can't…" She trailed off and took a deep breath, then spread her arms out. "We should discuss … what happened."

He clenched his jaw. Now she wanted to talk? "I thought you said you were done with that."

"That's not …" She started defensively, before stopping herself. "Things were a mess down there. They still are. I just…" She trailed off again, and her uncertainty annoyed him. It made her seem vulnerable and he did not want to see that. The Mac by the taxi stand in Paraguay was heartless, he reminded himself.

"What?" He pushed, his voice harsh, not wanting to leave room for his anger to vent. It was what had kept him going after the cluster fuck that cost him his pride, his uniform and his heart. He was going to hold onto his anger in the absence of everything else.

"The CIA, Harm?" She looked up finally, questioning.

"What about it?" He tried to stand taller, intimidate her into silence. Not that it had ever worked before.

"Harm—"

He had to cut her off before she said his name again, before she spoke. He couldn't bear to hear it. Her voice had always calmed him, and he did not want to be stripped of his only defence against her.

"I thought you had a thing for spooks." He put in as much disdain as he could muster, tried not to let her read what he was trying to hide behind his eyes.

Shock and anger hardened her face. Good. He could handle her if she was angry. She opened her mouth to speak, and he waited for the resentment and accusations that would thicken his skin, inure him from her. But instead of saying anything, she closed her mouth, seemed to reconsider. She searched his face carefully.

"Let's go grocery shopping." She finally said, her tone hard.

He blocked her path. "No. I think you should finish this 'discussion'. That'd be a first for you, wouldn't it? Not avoiding. Not shutting it down. Oh, wait. That isn't you."

She crossed her arms in defiance and glared up at him.

"You want to blame me? Fine. It's all my fault. Do you feel better?"

He clenched his fist, pointed his finger at her. "Don't belittle me or what I did."

"I'm trying my best not to." She kept her eyes fixed on his, he could see how tenuous her control was, how close she was to ripping into him.

"Your 'best'?" He scoffed. "_This_ is your best?"

"I'm not belittling you or what you did with my gratitude, so don't belittle me with your contempt." Her voice was cold, he could taste the fury in her tone.

"Gratitude? You think I want your gratitude?" Derision soaked his words. "I don't want your damn gratitude." If she thought he did all that for a 'thank you' ... How the hell could she not figure out what he really wanted? He opened his mouth to ask her, but she spoke first.

"And I don't want your damned contempt." She ground out.

They stared each other down, unmoving, for long minutes, anger crackling in the air between them.

"Out of my way." She glared at him, her words were steel. "I have to go grocery shopping."

He didn't budge.

She was shaking, her fists clenched by her side, eyes glinting harshly. He waited for her to say something else that would cut his heart into even smaller pieces, if not completely obliterate it. Then maybe he could have done with her.

Instead, her indignation deflated, the glint in her eyes retreated, and she just watched him for interminable seconds.

"You've changed." She said this in a way that made him think she didn't know how she felt about it.

He was about to throw a pointed barb about how he was supposed to be unchangeable, just to annoy her, to taunt her cold fury back out into plain view. But when he saw the look on her face, the words died on his tongue.

She was watching him, looking sad and thoughtful. It was a look she rarely directed at him, reserved it for when he'd done or said something to hurt her, something that had shaken her faith in him. For reasons he was trying so damn hard to fight, that look still cut him to the quick. He hated disappointing her. Maybe that was where this whole thing began. And where did it end? Would it ever goddamn end?

"This isn't you." She waved her hand aimlessly, her eyes searching for an answer in his. "Why?"

He clenched his jaw, and summoned back his anger to eclipse the hurt he didn't want her to see. "What else, Mac."

"A lot else, Harm." Her tone was as sad and thoughtful as her eyes. "You're a lawyer, too."

He fanned his anger into a steady roar. She had no right over him. None. She was the one who refused him. "Don't you dare pretend to tell me what to do, who I am."

"You love to fly … Is that why you took the job? Or did you just want to get away?" Her tone was level, but he thought he heard scorn beneath the stillness in her voice. But it was her words that angered him. She continued, "I always thought your principles rated higher than anything else. I guess I didn't equate flying into that formula. Or is it your ego." Her words were cutting, they pierced right through him. He was overtaken by a sudden, blinding anger.

"I would never compromise..." He threw out, then stopped, at a loss for words, appalled and incensed by the accusation. Furious that she would fling such a thing at him. So carelessly. She knew him better than that, for god's sakes. It infuriated him even more that this bothered him with such intensity, lodged itself in his brain and his gut. "I would never—"

"No," she shook her head slowly, cutting him off. She was watching him intently. Her words were measured, came out with a deliberate emphasis. "You _never_ would."

He stopped short, not knowing how to respond. Anger popped and hissed under the surface of his skin. He could feel its slow burn in his pores. Damn her, was his first vicious thought. She'd always had a knack for tunnelling right into the centre of him and making him ask himself all the right questions. Damn her. He did not want to question that last five months of his life. He wanted to hurt her the way she had hurt him.

"Maybe I shouldn't have given up everything to travel 5,000 miles and damn near get myself killed." He spat the words out on a crest of anger, aiming for the centre of her.

She crossed her arms, her gaze unwavering, her demeanour unflinching. "Maybe you shouldn't have."

Her statement shook him with such force, he was sure the planet had been jolted off its axis and was juddering violently off-kilter, hurtling through the vast emptiness of space.

"You don't believe that." He said, his words gruff; his throat suddenly felt raw, his tongue like sandpaper. He wondered if his heart was still beating in his chest. He'd been wondering for the last five months.

She shook her head again, her face again wearing that sad, thoughtful look. Her impenetrable façade was gone, and all he could think was that there was so much hurt in her eyes. "I don't. But I think you do."

The implications behind her words paralysed him. He didn't … He would've … How could … He could not form a coherent thought. He needed to sit down. No. He scowled. Clenched his jaw. Tightened the set of his shoulders. Straightened his spine. He needed to get the hell away from her.

He turned around abruptly to face the door. How dare she say such a thing. After all he'd done. He should have quit the CIA before agreeing to this mission— He had one hand on the doorknob when he suddenly remembered why he was here in the first place. He stilled, took deep breaths to try and calm his hammering heart, to ease the adrenaline coursing through his veins. He leaned his forehead against the cool wood of the door. He couldn't even leave. After everything. He still couldn't even fucking leave.

He turned around and stalked to her couch. Angrily, he sat down and crossed his arms over his chest. He kept his glare fixed on her front door.

He heard her walk away from the living room and into the kitchen. He heard the telltale clinking of tableware and cutlery, of cupboards opening and closing. Moments later, he heard the whistling from the kettle. He kept staring at her door, studiously ignoring the cacophony of thoughts that were cluttering his brain. He heard her soft footsteps against the hardwood floor, approaching him. In his peripheral vision, he saw her set a mug of tea on the coffee table, in front of him. He felt her sit down on the couch, no doubt nursing her own cup of tea. He refused to look at her. She didn't say a word, didn't pick up a magazine, didn't switch on the television. She just sat with him, in silence, at the other end of the couch nursing her cup of tea.

He didn't know how many minutes or hours passed before her soft, tentative voice broke the silence.

"Harm?"

"What." He said with as much impatience as he could muster, not yet ready to relinquish his anger.

She continued in the same hesitant, conciliatory tone. "I really do need to go grocery shopping."

His anger almost melted at her tone, at the way she phrased her request. Almost. But he was not yet done tending to his hurt.

Without so much as looking in her direction, he pushed himself up off the couch and walked to the entryway in brisk, angry strides. He grabbed his coat from the hooks by the door and shoved his arms into the sleeves of his jacket.

"Then let's go." He didn't bother taming the irritation and impatience in his words

He heard her slide off the couch and pick up their mugs, the ceramic clanging together loudly in the heavy silence that had settled in the room. He stood facing the door, waiting for her as she went to the kitchen to put their mugs in the sink. Another heavy clang resounded. He crossed his arms impatiently as she went to her bedroom and then re-emerged wearing a jacket, her purse slung over her shoulder. She shoved her feet into a pair of shoes, her movements were jerky, abrupt. She was scowling, and he could see anger seething in her eyes.

"Let's go." She repeated. The irritation and impatience in her tone matched his. He won this round, he thought as he closed the front door behind them. The satisfaction of victory left him feeling oddly empty.


	2. Chapter 2

**Fallout**

Part 2

Disclaimer: Don't own'em

--

Safeway - Georgetown

Saturday

0813 Local

Harm followed Mac as she stepped through the sliding doors of the grocery store entrance. Her walk was so clipped and precise, she could've been marching to battle. He didn't care. Two more days and this would be over. He watched Mac grab a grocery cart. He supposed he could be civil. Truth was, though, he didn't want to talk to her; he didn't think he could without getting upset all over again.

He eyed the patrons milling about the store, looking for any individuals fitting the profiles included in the briefing file or matching any of the photos of Sadik's many aliases. After what he'd read though, Harm was pretty sure Sadik could hide at a Sunday night lady's only bingo game at the local rec centre and still not draw any suspicion.

He followed Mac as she marched through the store. She walked to the bakery section and threw a bag of whole wheat pita bread into her cart. That gave Harm pause. Whole wheat pita bread? Since when did she eat whole wheat pita bread. He didn't have much time to ponder that thought before Mac marched away from the bakery section and to the cereal aisle. She completely skipped the produce section – that was not too big of a surprise, although for all his teasing he knew she liked an occasional salad. She also bypassed the aisles with snacks, canned foods, and frozen foods. That was unusual. How desperately did she need to shop for groceries if she was skipping right by the stuff she usually stocked her kitchen with?

To his surprise, Mac marched the cart right in front of a display stocked with boxes of oatmeal. She never ate oatmeal. When they used to take the occasional run together in the mornings and he could convince her to join him for breakfast, she never ate oatmeal. In fact, she went on and on about how tasteless it was.

Why would she suddenly ... unless ... unless she was getting it for Webb. The thought made him want to hit something. It made him want to swear off oatmeal for the rest of his life.

"Is that for your boyfriend?" He didn't snarl, but it was a near thing. He clenched his jaw. This was not fair.

"It's for me." She replied evenly.

"The whole wheat pita, too?" He scoffed. "Gimme a break."

"You want a Kit Kat bar with that." She mumbled under her breath. He heard her anyways.

"What else are you going to buy? Webb a fan of soy milk, too?"

She ignored him, purposefully pushing the cart away. One of the wheels was uneven, and made a loud clattering noise as she shoved the cart down the aisle.

He followed her easily with long strides, and ended up overshooting her when she stopped abruptly in front of boxes of bran.

Now he'd seen everything.

"Bran? You're buying bran?" He crossed his arms and stared at her. "Is Webb going to have you splurge on prune juice next?" He infused as much sarcasm and scorn in his tone as he could.

She spun around to face him, glaring at him so intently, he would've recoiled if wasn't already bolstered by his own anger.

"Stop it." She demanded, her tone controlled.

"Stop what." He played dumb, refusing to give even an inch.

"Stop the bullshit about Clay. He's not even here. What's your real problem. Spit it out." She crossed her arms, a box of bran clutched tightly in one hand.

He thought that by now it would've been plainly evident what his problem was. He decided to let her figure it out for herself.

"Why are you so angry?" She hissed, not raising her voice given their public setting. Always trying so hard to be the consummate officer, he thought bitterly. She continued in the same tone. "You made decisions, choices, all by yourself. You didn't let anyone in, and now you're mad at us!" He heard the inflection in her voice and knew she'd just lost that control, that forced calm she'd been cleaving to so viciously. He'd succeeded in breaking down her defences, just as she'd shattered his. Good.

"I lost everything, Mac." His tone was fierce, his voice harsh. "Everything. And you didn't do a damn thing about it. You didn't give a shit, so don't pretend to care now."

"How dare you." The box of bran in her hand cracked and bent in her grasp. "I've always cared."

"Really?" He snorted his disbelief. "It's pretty hard to tell."

He watched the anger deflate from her form, and without her false cloak of calm, he could see the hurt and defeat painted across her features in blinding clarity for the second time that day. It was difficult to ignore, but he still had his anger so he tried anyways.

"I tried to talk to the Admiral…" She trailed off at the expression on his face.

"I have nothing to say to the Admiral." He ground out. That man was currently lowest on his list of concerns. Harm tried his best to remember that he'd once respected the man. It was damn hard to remember.

"Harm—" she put a hand out, reaching for his arm, only to stop in mid-movement and let her hand hang in midair.

His anger irrationally snowballed at the hesitancy in her gesture.

"I had to deal with it in my own way. What's wrong with that?" He was trying his damndest not to yell. Why the hell could no one understand. He couldn't bear to see anyone, not after he failed so theatrically, so completely and utterly. He was unaccustomed to failure. He hated it. This kind of thing didn't happen to him.

"You didn't have to push away your friends to do it." Her struggle to tame her anger was obvious.

"Friends?" He scoffed. "Let me tell you how overrated friendship is."

"Do tell, Harm. You seem to have all the answers. You wouldn't even return Bud's calls!" She accused with renewed momentum. "You weren't in touch with anyone. No one even knows when you are in town and when you aren't. And I tried…"

"What, Mac? What?" He cut her off, prodding impatiently, angrily.

"I …" She looked away, and he caught a glimpse of vulnerability in her demeanour. No, he berated himself. Not this time. He wasn't falling for it. He clawed blindly for his anger, threw everything he had at her.

"What? Kept your options open? Nicked me in the aorta and then ran off to play house with Webb?"

"Everything is black and white with you." The steel was back in her voice, in her eyes. "And you never listen. You only see and hear what you want to. Clay and I –"

The sound of her referring to the ass that led them into this mess in the first place snapped what little restraint Harm had. He knew her well, knew her strengths as well as her weaknesses, knew how they bled into each other, fed off of each other. Just as she knew of his.

"Oh, the great Sarah MacKenzie. Everything has to revolve around you. What, were you gunning for one in hand one in bush, like with poor, whipped Brumby? You're so afraid to be alone, you'll jump to any warm body that's interested."

"Go to hell." Her voice was surprisingly level.

"Already here." He scoffed.

"You're right. You are." She jabbed her finger into his chest. "Your pride is so important to you that when things don't go your way, you blame the world."

"And you came out smelling roses?" He looked down at her, taking advantage of his height.

"I didn't say that. I'm sure we're at least even on that count. But I'm not playing the poor martyr. I'm trying to pick up the damn pieces, instead of chucking it all." Tears thickened her voice, yet her eyes were dry and steely. "For God's sake, I tried to call you—"

"Stop with the damn messages! You just wanted to ease your guilty conscience." He waved a hand to dismiss her. "You don't know what you're talking about."

"Like hell I don't. What did you say once? You save someone's life, you're responsible for them? I think it's the other way around—"

He was on a roll, speaking without hearing, talking to keep her words away.

"And when you destroy someone's life?" He put on his most condescending glare. "Do tell: how many lives are you personally responsible for?"

The shrill ring of her cell phone interrupted them, left his words hanging in the air, awkward and accusing. It surprised him that for all they had just said to each other, neither had raised their voice. They glared at each other, and he searched her eyes for the hurt he was sure he'd inflicted. He couldn't find it. Instead he saw anger and, somehow, resignation. It confused the hell out of him. This was how she'd looked at him right before she said _never _by the taxi stand. It infuriated the hell out of him. Wasn't this hurting her? This was supposed to be hurting her, too. He did not acknowledge the pang of memory that reminded him how the hurt look she had given him at her apartment not even an hour ago had twisted his heart.

She broke her gaze away from him and dug into her purse for her phone.

"Oh, is that one of them now?" He eyed the phone with disgust, and turned away. Enough. He needed to dig her claws out of his heart. He needed it to stop hurting. "I have to buy some bread. Come find me when you're done with Lover Boy."

He walked to the end of the aisle and turned without looking back.

--

Mac watched Harm walk away as she absently answered her phone.

"MacKenzie." She stated automatically, still trying to regain control after that disgusting display with Harm. Damnit. She clenched her jaw and focused on regulating her breathing. She'd promised herself she would stay calm when she spoke to him and tried to get him to tell her why the hell he had cut ties so dramatically with his previous life. She was half surprised he hadn't disconnected his phone and moved to the other end of the country, if not the world. She wouldn't have been surprised if he had. She was supposed to take advantage of his forced presence to fix things, damnit, not make them worse. Damnit. She'd never known him to be so angry, she barely recognized—

"It is good to hear your voice, Sarah." The familiar voice cut through her thoughts. "Are you surprised to hear mine?"

Mac felt the breath rush from her lungs and her heart drop to her toes. _No_, no, no. Damn it. In her worry over Harm and in the intensity of their standoff, she'd lost sight of why he was with her in 

the first place. She took a breath and hoped her voice would be steady, even as she tried to regain her equilibrium.

"Sadik." She was suddenly irrationally thankful for the anger Harm had incited in her. It gave her something to hold on to while she tried to find her footing with the bastard on the phone.

"I wish you had told me you speak Farsi." His thin voice percolated through the line.

"Where are you?" She ignored his comment.

"Exactly where I need to be." He replied patiently, and then picked up his previous thread of conversation. "It seems we share a common heritage."

She didn't bother responding, and instead began walking to the end of the aisle to locate Harm. The bread section, he'd said.

"Now, now, Sarah. Where are you going? You and I are talking." She forced herself not to change her pace. He was watching her. Or someone else was watching her for him. The latter made more sense. He was crazy, but not stupid. He would not act until he knew he wasn't at risk of being apprehended.

"I have nothing to say to you." She responded, trying to goad him. If Kershaw was right, she was a distraction to Sadik; she might as well do her fair share to earn the title.

"Ah, but I have a lot to say. I have great admiration for you, Sarah."

She hated the way he said her name. It reminded her of a snake coiling around its prey.

"Which is why you almost tortured me to death in Paraguay." She stated testily.

"Yes, well that was a distressing circumstance. You see, at the time I was still confusing you with the enemy." His words dripped down her spine. "I am truly sorry."

"Sorry." She scoffed, incredulous. She had a very hard time believing he was even capable of remorse.

"Except for the fact that it allowed me to see the great strength of you heart." He paused, and she could feel her skin crawl under the sinister implications behind his words. "Yes ... I would like to make it up to you."

"How?" She was nearing the end of the aisle. She debated going to the bread section to find Harm. How many people did Sadik have watching her? And where the hell were they?

"Walk to the back of the grocery store," He stated. "Go through the double doors that lead to the inventory area. There's a back door through the docking zone that opens onto an alley. Make your way there."

"Now why would I do that." She replied flippantly.

"You will come." He stated, pausing only briefly. "In our souls, we are more alike than we are different. We are both warriors, both impassioned." He paused again, his words slow and measured, admiring and curious. She did not like what she heard behind them. "You were incredibly brave in Paraguay, more than any woman and most men that I have ever met. You will come, Sarah, because I intrigue you." His certainty annoyed her.

"Like a science experiment gone wrong." She answered, trying to buy time as she reached the end of the aisle. The bakery section was to the left, the storage area to the right. Harm was nowhere in her line of vision. Damn. Now what.

"You will come, Sarah," Sadik continued, ignoring her barb. "Because in you there is strength and wisdom you do not recognize. You are with men who are weak, but their weakness is not your weakness."

His words stilled her. His voice was grating, tight and thin and taunting. It brought back the metallic smell of blood and the suffocating, breathless horror inside that torture shack in Paraguay. She could feel the restraints on her wrists and ankles. She could hear the battery being charged for the first shock. Mac swallowed the echoes of the anger and helpless fear she'd felt then, and held them in the pit of her stomach until they hardened, dark and black and immovable. She knew what she had to do. Paraguay may not be a complete failure yet. Sadik had to answer for it. And this time, she was in a position to fight back.

She took a right towards the storage area, and slid her hand into her purse. She fingered the cool metal of her service weapon before taking the panic button from her purse and putting it into her pocket. She wished she'd gone with her initial instinct this morning and strapped a second gun to her ankle instead of settling for her service knife. At the time, she'd just thought she was being too paranoid.

Mac hoped the CIA's surveillance team was keeping close tabs on her. And this time it actually was Harm's job to come after her. She didn't doubt he would find her.

--

Harm stared at the stacks of bread in front of him without seeing anything. He was seething. He'd been angry at people and situations before, but never like this. He knew he wasn't thinking, knew he was acting on emotion, as Mac had once put it. It seemed it everything always came back to her. Even his thoughts. Even him.

He was trying the fresh start approach. He didn't think he was the kind of person who shirked his responsibilities. This time it was just easier to forget what he'd once had by not bothering to hold on to the dregs of his former life, especially now when everything was still fresh and raw. He was just so angry. At Mac. At Webb. At the Admiral. At the Navy. At the entire situation. And he was hurt by Mac. By the Admiral. That had been an especially bitter pill to swallow. A slap in the face. If they could cut him off so easily, he could cut himself off just as easily. He didn't need their help with that. Harm felt his heart rate increase as his anger rose. He forced himself to stop thinking about it.

He had a job to finish. Then he could go back to his life, and Mac could go back to hers, and never the twain shall meet.

He walked away from the wall of bread and back to the oatmeal. He'd known her for seven years and she never ate oatmeal, and then five months with Webb had her buying 1kg bags at a time. That was just icing on the damn cake.

Harm turned into the cereal aisle, but didn't see Mac. He walked the length of the aisle to make sure she wasn't there, eyeing each of the patrons as he went. He spotted her grocery cart, including a 1kg bag of oatmeal and a squished box of bran. The cart had been pushed to the side. Where the hell was Mac. An eerily familiar sensation of dread clenched his stomach and made his heart lose its rhythm. It was the same thing he'd felt every time he woke up from one of those damn nightmares five months ago.

Where the hell was Mac? He quelled his panic and fear. Now was not the time. Maybe she was one aisle over, without her grocery cart, picking up something or other. He walked to the next aisle. She wasn't there. No. Something was wrong. She wouldn't just make him worry out of spite. Something was wrong.

Damn it. Where was she? His eyes scanned the next aisle in vain.

Harm pulled his cell phone from his pocket and dialled Mac's number. It went straight to voicemail. Shit. He hit the speed dial button for the agents who were supposed to be watching Mac. His call was answered halfway into the first ring.

"Where is she?" Harm demanded, as he hurried to the next aisle in search of her.

There was only a slight pause on the other end.

"What? You lost her?" The agent exclaimed, sounding surprised and mildly alarmed. Harm felt dread in the pit of his stomach slowly spread. This did not feel right. Something was wrong.

"Did she walk out of the store?" He asked impatiently. His worry was making it hard for him to think straight.

"Not through the front," was the instant reply.

Shit. "Did she press her panic button?" Say yes, Harm thought. Say yes.

"No."

Shitshitshitshit.

"I'm going to check out back," He said into the phone as he broke into a sprint towards the back of the store. He dropped his cell phone into his pocket.

This didn't feel right. This did not feel right.

Harm pushed through the swinging doors that led to the inventory area at the back of the store.

"Mac!" He yelled, searching for her through the aisles as he ran. "Mac!"

Harm spotted the back door that led to the loading dock. He increased his pace and headed for it. He had to find her. He would never forgive himself if he was venting to racks of bread while she was taken from under his nose. He was going to find her.

He shoved through the back door and burst into the back alley of the store. Harm squinted in the sunlight, and blinked rapidly to help adjust his eyes. Why hadn't Mac pressed the panic button? Just as the question registered, Harm felt an intense, sharp pain as someone slammed a blunt object into the back of his head. The blow jerked Harm forward and he fell to his knees, his 

palms skinning on the asphalt. The sudden pain radiated across his skull and greyed the edges of his vision. Harm tried to stand up, but could not get his body to obey his orders. He remained kneeling on the asphalt. He blinked once, then twice. The grey would not go away. He tried to catch site of Mac, to lift his head and look down the alley to find her, but the grey at the edges of his vision turned darker and crept over everything. Then faded to black.


	3. Chapter 3

**Fallout**

Part 3

Disclaimer: Don't own'em

A/N: Again, you'll notice a bunch of dialogue from Persian Gulf in this part, but I changed some of it around to mix things up and make it fit the story. I don't know much about spy equipment, but anything's possible, right?

--

Georgetown

Saturday

0841 Local

"Keep walking, Sarah. By the grace of Allah, it is a beautiful day, is it not." His words oozed through the line. Mac clutched her phone tightly and took a breath. She really did hate his voice.

"It's a bit cool for my tastes." She replied evenly, searching the street for any sign of him. She reached behind her below the beltline inside her jeans, as surreptitiously as she could, and activated the wire she'd put on that morning, courtesy of the CIA. She silently thanked the agency for delivering it last night.

"Ah yes, you were born in the desert, weren't you." Sadik continued in a conversational tone. "We are not that different. I too was born in the desert." He paused. For effect, she guessed. He was one dramatic bastard. "We have a lot in common, Sarah."

"The only thing we have in common is that we both intend to kill each other." She figured her best chance at dominating Sadik was to keep him off kilter. She'd be as irreverent as she could. It was a risk, but it was one she was more than willing to take.

"I do not want to kill you, Sarah."

"Then we have nothing in common." She replied. She wondered how honest he was. Not very, she would guess.

"We are both far from our country, cut off from our roots and our traditions. Existing in a world not meant for us." Before she could respond, he continued easily. "Throw your purse into the bush next to you."

Mac stopped, and hesitated.

"Now." He commanded. For the first time during their conversation, his voice hardened. "There is a bench, about 15 feet in front of you." He continued when she didn't respond to his order.

Mac looked up, and caught sight of the bench. A man was seated on it. He was thin and wiry, his blond hair covered by a tweed cap. His blue eyes were watching her. He looked eerily familiar, yet was a complete stranger. His lip curled into an arrogant, malicious smile, and that was when she recognized him. Sadik.

Mac forced herself not to react to the sight of him. He had no hold over her. She was in control. This was not Paraguay. She searched past her panic for her anger, and found it readily waiting.

He lifted the jacket that was draped over his lap and looked down. She followed his gaze only to encounter the steel mouth of a gun, pointed right at in her.

"Very impressive, Sadik." She said in a tone that indicated she thought it was anything but.

"Thank you. Throw away your purse and your phone, Sarah. And come walk past me."

She fanned her anger into a steady rage. She would not show him a single weakness. He was not going to get anything from this encounter but impotence. She viciously suppressed the sudden onslaught of sounds and smells, the memories of the last time she'd seen him. Clay's screams. Her begging. Two gunshots that killed the missionaries. Blood. Dirt. Oppressive heat. The glint in his eyes. His snide smile and his grating voice.

She looked him in the eye as she threw her purse and phone into the bushes and walked towards him. The adrenaline pumping through her made her feel invincible. This bastard was hers. One way or another, he was hers. Even if this was her blaze of glory against impossible odds. She regulated her breathing, no point in letting Sadik see how ready and willing she was to face off with him. She knew what was at stake. She knew she needed to be able to think clearly. She'd been waiting for this since she'd heard Clay's first scream. This bastard was hers.

--

Safeway, Georgetown

Saturday

0852 Local

The first thing Harm was aware of was the throbbing in his head. The second was the small rocks in the asphalt that were digging into his cheek and his hands. He felt someone turn him onto his back, and he struggled to open his eyes.

Harm blinked at the sudden bright sunlight that greeted him. A shadow fell over him. He looked up, trying to remember what the hell was going on.

"Agent Higgins. CIA. We spoke on the phone." The man standing over him identified himself. Harm frowned. CIA? Phone? Something important was happening, something crucial, he could feel it in his gut. He was wasting time.

"Can you sit up?" Higgins put out a hand, but Harm waved it away.

Harm nodded, even though he wasn't really sure if he could, and immediately regretted moving his head. He waited for the spots in front of his eyes to dissipate. God, his head was pounding.

"We caught the guy who knocked you out." Higgins jerked his thumb over his shoulder.

Harm frowned in confusion. Last thing he remembered, he'd been looking for Mac...

Mac! Shit. Shitshitshit.

"Mac?" He asked urgently. "Did you find Mac?"

Higgins shook his head.

Harm jumped up, and had to put a hand on Higgins' shoulder to steady himself.

"How long was I out?" He said, still feeling the effects of the blow.

"Just a few seconds." Higgens replied, his hands supporting Harm.

"Where is she? Where's Mac, the Colonel?" Harm waved the man away. His eyes flitted to the end of the alley and back.

Higgins shook his head. "She's not here. And he's not saying anything." He pointed towards a young bearded man dressed in oversized jeans and a jacket. His hands were cuffed behind his back and another CIA operative was holding him against the wall. "We think he's the only one here, but we're sweeping the store."

Harm strode towards the man, grabbed his collar violently and slammed him into the wall. "Where the hell is she?" He demanded, crowding the man, trying to intimidate him.

The man spat out an answer in a language Harm did not understand. His self-righteous hatred though, was evident. Harm tightened his hold on his collar, ignored the throbbing in his head.

"Arabic. I think he's quoting the Quran. He won't say anything else." The operative holding the captive supplied, eyeing his prisoner with distaste. "We'll have to question him."

"He's not going to give us anything, and we don't have time to waste." Harm pulled his hands away from the man, giving him one last glare. He faced the entry to the alleyway and shut his eyes for a moment. He willed his head to stop pounding. He couldn't think.

Focus, Hammer. She needs you to think straight. He eyed the man who'd knocked him out. He wanted to do nothing more than pummel his face in until the asshole gave up Mac's location. Until he felt bones break and skin rip beneath his knuckles.

Breathe, he coached himself. Think.

This is not as bad as Paraguay. You know these streets. You've driven them often enough. This is not Paraguay where you went in half-cocked with no idea where to begin looking.

Harm looked out over alley, at the building tops. Where did you go, Mac.

"She was talking on her cell phone," Harm said to the Higgins.

"We're putting a trace on it now." Higgins replied.

Good, Harm thought, good. A place to start.

Higgins' phone rang. The agent grabbed it from his pocket and flipped it open.

"Higgins, here." The agent paused to listen. Harm held his breath, as though that might help him hear what was being said on the other end.

"Shit." Higgins swore, and Harm's heart stopped beating. He clenched his fists, wished he was listening in on the phone call.

"Damnit. Where? ... We're on our way." Higgins took off on a sprint down the alley before even flipping his phone shut. Harm broke into a run alongside him, ignoring his light-headedness at the sudden movements.

"What happened?" He asked, not entirely convinced he was prepared for the answer.

"Her phone was thrown into the bushes two blocks south." The agent turned left onto the street, not slowing his pace. "Her purse was nearby."

Damn. That pretty much screwed their chances of tracing her through her phone.

As they neared the location, Harm saw two agents on the sidewalk, crouching by a thick clump of bushes. He noticed a bench located a few feet from where they were standing. He could hear kids shouting and music blaring from the skate park across the street. Someone had to have seen something. As they reached the bushes, one of the agents handed the purse to Harm while Higgins took Mac's cell phone from the other agent.

Harm grabbed Mac's purse and searched it. Maybe she'd left them a clue. The first thing he saw was her handgun. That meant she was unarmed. This kept getting worse and worse. What the hell was Sadik going to do to her? Kershaw had said intel didn't think he was out to harm Mac. But the image of her strapped to that damn table was engraved in his brain, etched onto his retina.

"Her gun is in her purse." Harm said out loud, still not quite believing it. She wouldn't go into this kind of situation unarmed.

Higgins who had been speaking on his phone flipped it shut. He looked at Harm, his worry evident.

"Last call was from a disposable phone." He told Harm. "Untraceable."

Harm continued digging through Mac's purse. He needed something, anything that would break this cycle of bad news. He found it or rather, he didn't find it.

"The panic button isn't in here." He looked from Higgins to the other two agents. "Did she press it?"

"No." One of the agents replied reluctantly. All three CIA agents were scowling.

"Does the panic button have a tracking device?" Harm wasn't ready to give up just yet.

Higgins studied Harm carefully as he answered. "It's only activated when the panic button is pressed."

Harm suppressed the sudden wave of dread that threatened to overwhelm him. He'd be damned if he went all the way to goddamn Paraguay and lost his wings and the Navy only to have her kil—let something happen to her in Georgetown because he was too angry to keep an eye on her like he was goddamned supposed to do. Harm clenched his jaw, felt determination steadily simmer in his gut. Nothing was going to happen to her. He would not let anything happen.

He looked at the skate park across the street. All teenagers, all too engrossed in their activities. He looked at the apartment buildings and townhouses surrounding the skate park. All two- to three-storey buildings. What were the chances someone saw something. They had to start looking for her. But where, how? If only his head would stop pounding so he could concentrate.

The shrill ring of Higgins' cell phone cut through the heavy silence shrouding the four men.

The lead agent whipped out his phone. "Higgins." He paused to listen and his scowl transformed into a look of surprise. Harm held his breath.

"What?" Higgins said into the phone.

Harm thought he heard relief in the man's voice.

"She did? Good." He nodded briskly into his phone. "ASAP," He flipped his phone shut and looked at Harm.

"She was wearing a wire." He was almost smiling.

Harm's eyes widened. "What?"

"She activated it a few minutes ago. We just got the signal." Higgins' relief was palpable. "The van is on its way. We can listen in. It could lead us to her."

It meant she was still alive. Harm thought. Why the hell hadn't she pressed the panic button?

It hit him then: she was going to do this on her own.

Damn it. He knew she wasn't stupid, knew she didn't take useless risks. She was always the one with a plan, was able to keep her emotions from affecting her on the job. Could handle stress like few he'd met before. Except for when someone she cared for was involved, or when he pushed her buttons. What the hell was wrong with him, he shouldn't have ... damnit. A part of him knew that no one could throw her off kilter as well or as thoroughly as he could. After their confrontation in the grocery store, he couldn't be sure she was in the right frame of mind. And it didn't help that she was facing the bastard who'd ... Harm paused in mid-thought. Christ. He really had no idea how she was dealing with the whole Paraguay thing. Nor what exactly had happened before he'd burst onto the scene in that forsaken country. They hadn't exactly been on speaking terms since. What he'd seen of her since yesterday morning made his gut clench. He didn't have a good feeling about this, about any of this. Damn it, Mac, he thought desperately. Press the goddamn panic button.

--

Unknown Location, Georgetown

Saturday

0901 Local

Sadik led her along the streets of Georgetown until they reached an apartment building a few blocks from where she'd dumped her purse and phone. He cast a glance behind him as they entered the building.

"It's not an ambush." She told him, making sure to sound unimpressed by his excessive worry about being followed. "I came alone."

He looked at her as they made their way up the stairs to the second floor. "You do have courage." His tone held a proprietary pride, which made her want to retaliate. So she did.

"What did you expect. I'm a United States Marine." She emphasized the last part, just to irk him.

To her disappointment, he did not react.

"Exactly what I expect. I appreciate the Marine mentality." He said evenly. He directed her into an apartment. She could see the skate park from the window. She looked out the window, trying to make out any location markers that would make it easy for whoever was listening in on the wire to find them. Once she was ready to be found, that is. She had not yet pressed the damn panic button. She was hardly panicking, after all.

The skate park Mac saw was rather large and impressive, occupying the farthest corner of the park, just at the edge of a leafy forest. The skate park was filled with kids, a stereo was blasting, loud shouts and laughs could be heard, even from where she stood. She remembered what activities kids got up to in parks bordering forests, at least back when she was a kid.

"Give me your coat." Sadik ordered, still pointing his gun at her. Mac removed her coat and handed it to him.

"Do you have any weapons on you?" He asked.

"Do you see any place I could hide one?" She replied cheekily as she turned to face him. She thought she saw something flash in his eyes as he gave her a once over. Recognition struck; that was it. She'd just found his weak spot. Asshole. Now she knew him. She fought from grinning at her newfound knowledge, instead she raised her arms, deliberately goading him, her voice playful, her posture anything but innocent. "Don't you want to search me?"

It took him a moment to regroup. "Lower your arms," He said with disgust. "Try to behave with the dignity I'm sure your grandmother had." He threw her coat onto the table in the centre of the room, and stood a few feet away from her.

She had him. Triumph coursed through her, bolstered her. She got to him.

"You wouldn't have liked my grandmother, Sadik." Mac schooled her voice to impudence. She was going to exploit his views for all she was worth, she had the perverse urge to really piss him off. Besides, he might speak more than intended if he was angry enough. He had brought her here for a reason, she knew. She was going to figure that reason out. Then she'd break him.

"She refused to wear hijab," Mac continued, watching him carefully, "And she would've been very proud that an Iranian woman – a Muslim – accepted the Noble Peace Prize without wearing the headscarf."

"An atrocity." Sadik scoffed, visibly irritated by her words. He waved his gun dismissively. "An insult to the devout."

"It's the future." She stated with confidence.

"Ah, yes." He paused to study her. "You wish for equality between men and women. Well now, see were that equality has gotten you, Sarah? There is no man here to protect you, because you've stepped out of your place in society."

"If I'm so unprotected, then why are you still holding the gun on me?" She eyed his gun, eyebrow raised in challenge.

He held her gaze for a moment, and then made a dramatic display of uncocking the handgun and putting it into the inside breast pocket of his jacket.

She studied him carefully. What was he up to? She couldn't understand why he went out of his way to get her alone. It seemed stupid and dangerous, two things she would not have associated with him. CIA intel had it right for once, it seemed. He was distracted – by her. It amazed as much as unsettled her. She decided on the blunt approach.

"What do you want, Sadik. What are you after?"

"Are you making me an offer, Sarah?" His voice was smarmy. She didn't think he'd be so blatantly transparent about it. She forced herself not to react to his question. She had him, she reminded herself. She had him.

"Do I have something you want?" She asked innocently.

"You are an intelligent, beautiful woman. All men want …" He trailed off, studying her almost reluctantly.

Mac hated where this was going. She had a terrible feeling in the pit of her stomach, could feel it all the way to the tips of her fingers. She felt cheapened. _No_. No. She was using his weakness against him, not the other way around. She was in control. She had the bastard in her sights.

"All men want..." She raised her eyebrow, tried to play coy. She wondered how far she could push this before his sanctimony won out over his confused lust. "What?"

He kept studying her, his watery blue eyes never leaving her face.

"What their mothers could never give them." He finally said. He was hedging.

"What do you want?" she persisted.

"I want..." He trailed off. His eyes drifted down her form, and back up. When they reached her face, she raised her eyebrow and fought her smirk. It was coming, she could feel it.

"Ah, I see." She needled him, her tone careless. She scoffed. "You'll what? Convert me to Islam" She pretended to give it some thought. "Of course, you'd want to humiliate me first. Torture me, once you'd convinced yourself that I'm a whore … maybe then you'd find your manhood, Sadik." She disdained, voiced her utter contempt of him. "You would be afraid of this body; you would use me and throw me away."

She watched the vein at his temple tense, watched his hands clench at his side. She was getting there. Making him lose control.

"You revealed yourself to me when we were in Paraguay, Sarah." His tone was calm and measured, almost cajoling. It belied the tension in his bearing. His smugness irritated her, but she tried to suppress her reaction. "You were pretending to be a man's wife, pretending to be carrying a child. But when I saw through the illusion, I realized you are pretending to be a woman. You are without a husband. Without children. You live a barren life in a prison of fear." He paused, spread his hands in a gesture of peace. "I've helped many others to understand that only in Islam can you be truly free."

Like she was buying that drivel.

"Freedom for you, Sadik, means control." She replied bitterly. "It means taking away choice. That's not freedom." She ground out the words, struggling to remain in character. She needed to focus, not let him anger her. She still didn't know what he was after, what his next big mission was.

"If you lived a true Muslim life, you would be free in your soul." He stepped closer to her, standing much too close for comfort. His ever present calm firmly in place. "You would still have all your strength, but also, you would have purity. You would wear hijab and live with dignity, not dress like a whore and live like one."

"And you're taking it upon yourself to set me free." She scoffed at the contradiction, forced herself not to move away from him. "I do remember a verse my grandmother taught me, from the second chapter of the Quran: 'Let there be no compulsion in religion'. I'm guessing you don't follow that one?"

Sadik watched her, his eyes hardening. Closer, she thought. Almost there.

"Look at those people," Sadik said abruptly, looking out the window towards the skate park. "Tell me: What do you see?"

She didn't bother glancing out the window, focused on watching him instead, trying to read him.

"Kids having a good time," She responded dismissively, confused by the sudden shift in conversation. She'd been getting somewhere, she knew, she'd been close to something. "Enjoying a Saturday."

"To me, they look like the walking dead." His voice leaked derision. "You quote the Holy Book to me, but you do not see what festers in this society that you think is yours." It was an accusation. She waited in silence.

"You know what those children do once it gets dark." He gestured towards the forest, "What they hide in that forest. Do you approve of the drinking, the drugs? The way they treat their girls. Like whores." He did not give her room to answer, his voice was thoughtful, disapproving, full of hatred.

"And these are the children who grow up, intervene in _our_ land and corrupt everything they touch." His voice raised only slightly with indignation. "Tell us what to think, how to live. Through the barrel of a gun and their 'superior' weaponry. They even brainwashed you. And you talk of compulsion."

He turned to face her, his veneer of calm once again in place. "I am offering you a choice, Sarah. There is always choice. If you want to live like those people, then the only purification you can hope for is death."

She struggled to regain her footing in this conversation, to push him off balance. He was too calm and focused for her to have any chance of leading him to reveal his plans, or of gaining the upper hand.

"I'm beginning to see." She replied, her tone matching his, pretending to have all the answers. "What attracts you to me is the same thing that angers you: My independence. Those kids are free to choose how they want to live, and you can't stand that. So what are you going to do? Kill them?"

He stared at her, unflinching, but she could see the vindication behind his eyes.

Shit.

"My God, you are…" Her eyes widened, panic thumped in her chest. She again thanked whoever was responsible for the wire she was wearing. If nothing else, Sadik was not going to kill any innocents in that park. She felt a perverse sense of satisfaction; he would not be pleased that his plans were thwarted. He was going to lose this round.

"Would you like to know the secret of America's downfall?" His eyes flicked to hers momentarily, his tone conversational. "Here everything is for sale. The government goes to the Middle East to look for weapons of mass destruction ... everyone knows the weapons are here. And like everything else, they can be bought. Here."

He cocked his head to side, and studied her. He glanced back towards the park. He shrugged lightly. Something primal glinted in his eyes. "The direction your country is taking defines the direction I must take."

When the hell was he planning this for. She needed to think clearly. Get more information out of him.

"You plan to attack a skate park? Full of innocent people? Children?" She tried her best not to show her worry, her fear for the lives of those children. She was in control.

"No one in America is innocent!" Sadik yelled, catching her off guard – so this is what it took to unhinge him. "Wake up, Sarah! Isn't yours a government of and by its people?" His voice was loud and thin, flattened by his rage. "So, when your government kills from a great distance with their smart bombs, and their missiles in the most cowardly manner … isn't the blood that is shed on your hands? And theirs? You believe in the death penalty, yes?" He took a breath, calmed himself. "So do I. 9/11 was only the beginning."

She directed her shot carefully, now knowing where two of his weaknesses lay. "Using U.S.-made Stinger missiles in Paraguay to blow up a civilian airliner out of the sky, slaughtering a bunch of kids while you watch in the distance ... It seems to me that you aren't above acting in a 'most cowardly manner' either. How does that sit with the warrior in you?"

He smiled slightly at her, as though he could read her thoughts, knew what she was trying to do.

"My strength can be your strength. I want you to witness this so you would believe the truth: you are not safe unless you are under my protection. I can strike anywhere I desire. Here, or in a supermarket parking lot. In the very heart of America." He pursed his lips in thought, then continued. "Perhaps, you are familiar with the term 'Permissive Action Link'?"

"Yes, I know what that is. It's the trigger device of a nuclear weapon." Mac was fed-up with his stupid games, with the way he was looking at her, trying to instigate her. "Do you have one?" She asked bluntly.

"Soon … from your arsenal, bought and paid for with your diamonds."

"Who's it for?" She tried bluntness again.

"Someone who will put it to good use." He responded vaguely. He gave her an arrogant look. "Do you see how you need me to protect you?"

She ignored his question.

"So somebody has a nuke, but they don't have the PAL to set it off. Where are you getting it from?" She tried bluntness yet again. Third time's a charm, she crossed her fingers.

"I've said enough." He eyed her, the suspicion in his eyes told her to try a different tack.

He saw her was weak, he saw her as strong. She did not know which persona he wanted to see now. She guessed weak. The fucker was all about being in control. Wanting to protect her, dominate her.

"I am impressed … just bombing a park seemed out of character for you. So, when's this," She waved her hand towards the park, "Going to happen?"

"In less than 10 minutes." He responded easily.

She stared at him. How long would it take the CIA to alert the local authorities and start an evac? She didn't have much time, and she had to distract him in case he had a back-up plan in place.

"Ten minutes?" She repeated, and stepped closer to him. She shrugged off her disgust with herself. She was in control. "Sadik, how can I make you call this off?" She placed her left hand on his right arm, his shooting arm, and softened her voice. She looked him in the eye. "What can I do … there must be something?"

She watched him as he watched her. He was wrestling some inner battle with his more puritanical side, she guessed. She heard sirens in the distance and hoped he wouldn't notice, knowing that he would.

"What is that?" He looked up suddenly, then turned his head to look out the window, alarmed. His look of alarm was the first sign of vulnerability on his part, and it made satisfaction and vindication burst violently in her. She had him. Bastard. She took advantage of his distraction to reach into her pocket and press the panic button. Not that she was panicking. She also reached behind her to deactivate the wire. It was her turn for the next three minutes. Just her and Sadik.

"What's what?" She asked innocently, a victorious, smug grin on her lips.

Sadik turned to look at her, and caught the expression on her face. A panicked fury transformed his features, and she knew that whatever he would do next would be rash and clumsy and unplanned. The pitfall of being a control freak; he couldn't handle deviations from the script.

He jerked his arm to reach for his gun, but she tightened her left hand over his arm to hold it in place. At the same time, she swiftly thrust her right palm upwards, jamming it into his nose. The sickening crunch gave her such a deep sense of satisfaction, it was almost a struggle for her to force her concentration back to the fight at hand. His head jerked back and he yelped. She took advantage of his loss of balance and swung her foot behind his leg, sending him crashing to the ground on his back. He held his nose between his hands, his eyes watering.

She knew she had to get the gun from his jacket pocket before he did. She dropped herself to her knees, straddling him, one hand on his neck as the other reached into his pocket. Just as she wrapped her hand around the butt of the gun, he hurled his fist into her shoulder. Her arm flung back under the force of his blow and she lost her grip on the gun, sending it clattering to the floor a few feet from them.

She could not let him get on top of her. She had to get that gun. Mac aimed her fist for his throat. He caught her hand in mid-flight and shoved her off of his prone form. He rolled her over and pressed himself on top of her. His one hand held her by the throat, while the other reached blindly for the gun. The blood from his broken nose trailed down his chin, and splattered in large drops on her neck and chest.

Mac struggled to breathe as his hand pressed down on her neck. She needed to get out from under him. Her eyes flitted to the gun on the floor; it was just beyond his reach. She slowed her struggle, hoping it would get him to loosen his hold. It worked. Sadik leaned slightly away in an attempt to get closer to the gun, and Mac took advantage of his inattention. She butted her forehead into his nose, hooked her foot behind his knee and put every ounce of her into rolling him over. He screeched in pain, but succeeded in grabbing the gun just as Mac shoved him onto his back. She reached quickly to her ankle, under her pants, for the knife she had concealed in a sheath. Mac heard him cock the hammer of his gun and shot her left hand out to grab his wrist, putting all her weight into to keep him from aiming the gun at her. His free hand reached for her throat. This was not an even fight, she knew. She didn't have much time before he got the upper hand.

She struggled to keep the barrel of the gun facing away from her, and bring the knife up to where it could do some damage. She grunted as she heaved herself upwards and jabbed the knife into his gut, shoving it in with everything she had. Sadik's finger jerked on the trigger of his gun. The loud crack of the bullet firing rang in her ears, and the recoil jolted her hand where it held his wrist. But all she was concentrating on was the surprise in his eyes as he looked down at the blood seeping through his shirt and covering her hand. She held on tightly to the handle of the knife, the blade embedded to the hilt inside him.

He looked up at her, as she sat atop him. She heard the gun clatter to the floor but paid no heed to it. She leaned forward and looked him in the eye. She wanted him to see the full extent of his defeat.

"You're the one who's weak." She whispered, the adrenaline pounding in her ears. Her voice was low and steady, levelled by all the rage and helplessness she felt in that shack. She twisted the knife.

That was when she saw it. In his eyes. In that one moment where he realized he was going to die, his eyes flickered from surprise to shock to fear ... terror.

"Just like that," she said, looking him in the eye. He stared back. She pulled the knife out and let it drop to the ground. She shoved herself away from him, and stood up. She stared down at him, her hands hanging by her side, as he bled onto the hardwood floor. His eyes never left hers.

The doors burst open and a sudden flurry of activity surrounded her, but she paid no heed to it.

Through the sudden tumult and noise, her eyes held Sadik's, while his held surprise, disbelief, fear. The movement around her took on a surreal quality. It was as though she could feel every sound wave, every vibration in the air. She could feel the movement around her against her skin. But her attention remained focussed only on Sadik. She watched the fear in his eyes slowly give way to smug acceptance. His face was again transformed by arrogance. He smiled at her.

She watched the smile spread on his face. He could smile, she thought, but she knew. She knew he felt that moment of terror in the face of death. That doubt. She knew how important death was in Islam, how it lived in the space between each heartbeat. She knew also how preparedness and acceptance was a part of life. He could smile now, but he had doubted, and that was enough for her. They both knew she won. Bastard had it coming.

Her view of Sadik was cut off by the sudden crowd of men in civilian clothing that surrounded him. Their eye contact broke, but Mac kept staring at where his eyes had been.

"He has a pulse!" Someone yelled out.

Mac blinked, and focussed on the men surrounding Sadik. Civilians? It took her a moment to remember that she was on a CIA op.

Then the words she'd just heard registered: he had a pulse. She didn't know if she wanted him dead or alive. She didn't ever want to have to hear his voice again, hear him say her name.

Mac felt a hand on her elbow. Absently, she moved her arm away. She watched the agents mill around Sadik. Was he dead? She needed to know. It was important that she know. She didn't care whether he lived or died, she got what she wanted from him. But Clay needed him to be dead. It would be better for Clay if he were dead.

"He's fading! Where's the bus?" Another voice shouted.

It angered her that he couldn't even die without being dramatic about it, without prolonging the uncertainty. It surprised her a bit that her anger was still there. The helplessness. She supposed it would take time to fade, a delayed reaction. Like powering down a generator, whirring and sputtering long after the switch was pulled. Anger was still there, bubbling beneath the surface, beneath the odd sense of detachment that made everything around her move in slow motion.

She felt a gentle hand on her shoulder, and didn't bother shrugging away this time. She could feel the warm wetness of Sadik's blood through her blouse and on her hands, on her neck. It was cooling rapidly, thickening and starting to stick to her skin. It felt uncomfortable. She looked down at the dark patches of blood that stood out in marked contrast against the white of her shirt. She should've used a gun. It would've been a lot less messy.

She wondered if it would have felt more satisfying.

--

"Mac." Harm called her softly, his hand resting on her shoulder. She was staring at the mass of CIA agents swarming around Sadik's body. Her expression was intent but he couldn't read it, which worried him. At least she wasn't reacting negatively to being touched.

"Mac." He tried again more forcefully when he saw her look down at the patches of blood on her shirt. He reminded himself that the last time she'd stabbed a man after he'd threatened her, it had taken awhile for the reaction to set in. She tended to bottle things up, hold them inside, suppress them.

She still wasn't answering him. An agent handed Harm her jacket, and he draped it over her shoulders. The act made her look over her shoulder at him, her expression oddly blank. He looked her in the eye, tried to convey strength and calm.

"It's over, Mac. Let's go outside, get some air."

She frowned at him momentarily, and then seemed to shake herself from her stupor.

"I'm fine." She said as though he were asking her if she wanted bread to go with her salad.

"I know you are." He replied gently. He nodded towards the floor where Sadik lay surrounded by CIA agents. "But we need to give them room to work."

That seemed to satisfy her. She moved towards the door suddenly, causing his hand to fall from her shoulder. He followed her out, eyeing Sadik's prone form as he left the room. Mac had a tough road ahead of her. He hoped she didn't lose herself along the way.

She was already standing outside, leaning against the side of the building when Harm caught up to her. He'd just made it to her side when an agent came up to them both.

"We have an ambulance on the way. They'll treat you both for your injuries."

"What about Sadik?" Mac asked. She looked hard and worn, and was wearing a determination so strong it looked like anger to Harm.

"He's dead." The agent replied, looking at Mac. Harm noted the admiration in the man's eyes. And the worry. He hoped Mac didn't pick up on it, he didn't know how she'd react to that in her current state of mind.

Mac simply nodded and turned her head to stare down the street, her eyes fixed on some point where the sky met the road.

The agent glanced at Harm, his worry deepening, and then headed into the building.

"Check us both for injuries." Mac repeated quietly, still looking away from him. It was not a question, but a statement. He watched her, and waited.

She finally turned to look at him, and studied him curiously.

"Sadik mentioned something about striking in a grocery store parking lot." She could have been commenting on the weather. "You hurt?"

"Just a knock to the back of the head." He dismissed the concern she seemed about to cleave herself to. He knew she would use it to distract herself.

She frowned as she straightened, pushing herself off the wall and tightening her jacket around her. It was still draped over her shoulders, she hadn't bothered putting it on properly.

"Are you alright? Do you have a concussion?"

He thought she sounded excessively worried, and knew she was using it to avoid thinking about what had happened up there. He also knew that she'd catch him out if he lied.

"I was out for a couple of seconds. Head hurts. No dizziness." It was just a bit of a lie. Mostly the truth. Now that the adrenaline was wearing off, his head was starting to throb and he was worried that any sudden movements would make the world spin.

She searched his eyes. He wondered if she could detect his slight fib. "They'll probably want to keep you overnight." She finally said.

He shrugged, and opted to shift the focus to her.

"Are you hurt anywhere?"

She shook her head slightly. "A few bruises."

"We found your purse. With your gun in it." He added the last part without knowing why, without intending to.

She hesitated, uncertainty clouding her face. He wondered why until he realized that she was deciding on whether he was commenting or criticizing.

"Had a knife on me." Her reply was firm, and left him no room to continue this conversation without forcing it.

He nodded. He wanted to ask her why she didn't press the panic button. On one level, he knew why she hadn't. But for reasons he couldn't explain, he needed to hear her say it. Maybe if he said something, she'd think twice before she did anything that stupid again. He'd heard most of her conversation with Sadik before the connection had been cut. He knew she was driven by something other than reason in that room. Maybe if he said something, she'd think about why she had done what she did, and start dealing with it.

Before he could decide how to broach the subject, Mac's gaze shifted over his shoulder.

"Ambulance is here." She glanced at him before walking across the lawn, towards the bus.

He watched her walk away. She looked uncharacteristically frail with her coat draped over her shoulders, her steps small and tired. They needed to talk. They would talk. Once they were cleared by the paramedics and debriefed, he vowed. Even if he had to hunt her down.

He remembered Holbarth's death, and knew that if he'd shot the man to avenge Diane's death his satisfaction wouldn't have lasted much longer than it took for the heated muzzle of a gun to cool down. She shouldn't be alone when all of this hit her, once the shock wore off. She was probably expecting closure with Sadik's death, and he knew she wouldn't get it.


	4. Chapter 4

**Fallout**

Part 4

Disclaimer: Don't own'em

--

Outside Mac's Apartment

Sunday

0800 Local

Harm slammed his car door shut behind him and walked at a brisk pace towards Mac's building. He spotted her car parked in its usual spot. She was in. Good. He was going to talk to her, consequences be damned. He figured whatever conversation they had couldn't be much worse than those they'd been having since Paraguay. And this time he'd try his damndest not to get upset or say stupid things as he tended to do when she roused his ire. No lashing out, Rabb, he coached himself.

Harm took the steps to Mac's floor two by two, not bothering with the elevator.

He was pretty sure he wouldn't lash out, though. Just picturing that look on Mac's face as she watched Sadik bleed on the floor of that building, her clothes and hands covered in his blood ... it had made for a very troubled sleep last night. He hadn't realized how much the bastard had affected her. He'd stupidly thought her usually extraordinary resilience was still firmly in place. But waiting while she went in to face that psycho by herself at such risk without talking to him about it first, hearing her conversation with Sadik, seeing that look on her face ... It put a lot into perspective for him. He'd also been kept up all night wondering if his realization was too little, too late.

But he wouldn't worry about that until he had to. He strode down her hallway, to her front door. No lashing out. He took a deep breath and knocked.

He counted to twenty. There was no answer, and he could hear no movement inside her apartment. Was she sleeping? Unlikely. She was a morning person, he hadn't known her to sleep in later than 0800. Then again, a lot had changed ... He sighed. He knew he shouldered some of the blame for that, they both did. There was a time when she always came to him. He knocked on her door again; maybe she was in the washroom.

He counted to twenty. No answer. Harm frowned. He cursed the doctors for insisting he stay overnight for observation. He knew Mac had been released after a quick check-up. He also knew she'd been at Langley well into the night, being debriefed. He'd hoped she was too exhausted after the events of the day to do anything except go home and fall into her bed for a restful sleep. It had been a lot to hope for. He'd also hoped she'd pay him a visit in the hospital, but knew that had been even more to hope for.

Alright, he pulled himself from his thoughts. She obviously wasn't home. What did Mac do when she needed to unwind? She went to the gym or she went for a run. It was an absolutely gorgeous fall day out. He'd bet good money she was pounding out her frustrations on the unpaved trails that lined Rock Creek Park.

Harm gave her front door one last glance before heading back to his car.

--

Rock Creek Park

Sunday

0810

Mac paced herself as she jogged along the winding, knotted trails that snaked through the park. She'd spent some of the most tedious, emotionally numbing hours of her life being debriefed at Langley. It had been late at night when she'd finally left. Damn CIA. They'd sucked her dry of every drop of information, and still kept drilling for more. She guessed that they weren't too pleased Sadik was dead. To hell with them. Let them sit through what Clay had and then they could tell her what pleased them and what didn't. Maybe this way they'd stop bothering her with their stupid missions.

Once she'd finished going through the seventh level of hell, she'd asked to be dropped off at the hospital so she could stop in to see Harm. And so that he could see her. She needed to confirm that he was okay. The doctor had told her, after much cajoling, that he had a mild concussion and was being kept overnight for observation. They hadn't spoken since the paramedics arrived on the scene yesterday, though Harm kept throwing her concerned looks on the ride to the hospital. She was fine, but thought that perhaps he needed to see it. So she'd gone to the hospital to let him know she was okay, and make sure he was okay.

She'd taken the elevator to his floor and walked down the hall to his room and was all geared to walk in and face him. That was when she'd been hit by the strongest sense of déjà vu she'd ever experienced. It had been her walking down the hall to see Clay and hearing him welcome Harm into the brotherhood. That feeling of dread, of loss, of irreversible finality had glued her feet to the ground and robbed her mind of any conscious thought. Next thing she knew, she was sitting in a cab, giving the driver her home address.

Her actions still surprised her. And pissed her off. What the hell was wrong with her. She didn't want to think about it. She'd gone to her apartment and fallen into bed. She'd woken up at 0403 with an uncontrollable need to wash her hands, to take a shower. She thought she may have peeled away a few layers of skin in her eagerness to feel clean. She'd only gotten out when all the hot water was gone, and her body could no longer tolerate the cold spray.

She hadn't been able to sleep after that. All she wanted to do was run until she couldn't breathe.

Her thoughts wandered back to the debrief at Langley. She wondered if the news had reached Clay by now. Probably. He was still recovering from the nightmare in Paraguay. He'd gone to his family home on the shore for the weekend, where it was quiet and he could be alone. She wondered if his preference for solitude had been heightened after Paraguay. She didn't think so. He'd always had an air about him, a man who looked to be alone even in a roomful of people. She'd been like that, once. Before she'd forged such deep relationships with the Roberts, the Admiral – or so she'd thought – and Harm. And Chloe. Although she had still sometimes felt the old pull, the retreat into herself that had been her safety blanket since she was a kid. It had become a merciless urge recently, had become almost instinctual during and after Paraguay. She tried to fight it, but it was just easier to stop trying. And she found it a lot easier to stop fighting when she was with Clay.

Clay. They were friends and … something. Maybe. She wasn't sure. She didn't know. She didn't even want to think about it, talk about it. They didn't talk about it. She was as supportive as she could be for his recovery, but he didn't talk much about them or about what had happened down there. They'd both been there, no need to go over it again and again.

She had seen something in him though, down there. Something that attracted her to him in a way she hadn't ever felt before. Something that drowned her, coated her skin with liquid warmth. She didn't think it was physical … She couldn't explain it, didn't care to understand it. Talking to him gave her such comfort. It was as though they had formed their own bubble, their own haven in that wooden shack that smelled of humidity and desperation and a foreboding so intense she could feel it prick in her bones. And talking to him, being in a room with him, looking into his eyes was like recreating that bubble, finding that safe haven where the world was shut out and it just him and her and the dread that lurked in the air couldn't touch them.

She fleetingly wondered what it meant, but found it too comforting to worry about it.

And she did care for him. She felt bound to him. She'd meant what she'd told Harm: it was the other way around. Clay had given up so much for her safety, endured so much. How could she not feel responsible? And the same went for Harm: she was also responsible for him. She'd always felt she was, always felt that it was vital for her to make sure he was safe, otherwise something of her, some part, would be lost. Some essential part she could not bear to lose.

But that was all over and done with now. Harm hadn't been returning her calls, and wasn't about to start after that horrendous confrontation in the grocery store. It still left a sour taste in her mouth. He'd said cutting things as he tended to do when he felt threatened. She'd retaliated in kind as she tended to do when she felt cornered. He would not speak to her. But she still felt the irrational pull to keep trying. She was responsible for him.

It didn't matter, she told herself. It didn't matter.

She picked up her speed, ran a little faster along the unpaved trail. She concentrated on her rhythmic breathing and the steady beat of her shoes against the hard dirt. No more thinking.

--

Rock Creek Park

Sunday

0828 Local

Harm veered his car through the winding roads that snaked through the park and kept his eye on the jogging trails. It was a ludicrously long shot, but he hoped he'd catch her on the trails that were visible from the road. He'd beaten even more incredible odds in the past. He was counting on his luck to keep up.

He saw a familiar figure running at a steady pace through the trees to the left of the road. He exhaled his relief. He was one lucky bastard. Harm quickly parked his car on the shoulder of the road and ran up the dirt incline, avoiding rocks and roots, towards Mac.

She was not running fast, so he didn't have much trouble catching up to her. He didn't say anything until he was just beside her, keeping pace with her. She hadn't noticed him, which was unlike her. He wished he was wearing running clothes.

"Mac," He said softly, hoping not to startle her. In the muffled silence of the forest, his voice sounded unnaturally loud and intrusive.

She faltered in her step, and looked at him in surprise. He didn't think she looked upset, at least not with him. She just looked so terribly worn.

"How're you doing, Mac?" He felt stupid asking, but didn't know how else to kick start a conversation with her. And she just looked so worn, he couldn't bear to be silent.

"Fine. How's your head?" She turned her attention back to the trail, looking very tense.

He nodded, and then frowned in thought. How would he start this conversation. He decided on the direct approach.

"Talk to me, Sarah."

She almost tripped when he said her given name, but didn't say anything. She scowled. Her pace increased. What was she doing, he wondered. He matched his pace to hers.

"Talk to me, Mac." He persisted.

She ran a little faster and said nothing for about twenty paces. He was just about to resign himself to running alongside her in silence when she spoke.

"You wouldn't understand," she stated flatly.

"Try me." He concentrated on his breathing to keep from losing his composure at her categorical accusation. Her words were an affront.

"No." Her pace quickened.

"Mac." His patience was wearing thin.

"Drop it, Harm." Her pace quickened yet again. What the hell. He clenched his jaw. No lashing out, Rabb.

"We need to talk." He insisted.

"So now we need to talk." She mumbled cuttingly.

He stayed silent. She needed to vent some of her stress, he told himself. She didn't say anything for a good thirty paces, so he tried again. If she wouldn't talk to him...

"You need to talk to someone." He tried to make it sound like a suggestion.

She didn't respond.

"You need to talk to someone." He repeated. He didn't want to voice that she talk to Clay. It was not a palatable thought. He wanted her to talk to him, like she used to do.

"Mac..." He began, but was left speechless when she started sprinting.

"Mac!" He exclaimed, picking up pace to catch up with her. She sprinted faster still. He increased his pace again when she suddenly veered off the trail and into the adjacent wooded area.

"Mac!" He called after her. She'd turned so suddenly that he'd overshot her. He pivoted sharply and cut into the wooded area, following her. "What are …" He trailed off when he had to duck to avoid being hit by a branch. "Mac!" He yelled. "Mac, you'll hurt yourself!

He kept running after her, and she kept sprinting ferociously. He knew she wouldn't be able to keep that pace for long, and followed her doggedly as she sped through the wooded area. He felt the heavy branches and twigs brush sharply against his jeans. He noted that she was wearing shorts, and all he could think was that she must be getting scratched painfully all over her legs, yet she kept running.

He tried to catch up to her as she ducked and dodged around the trees and under branches. But he stopped calling out after her, because every time he said her name she just ran faster, farther.

--

Mac ducked her head under a low branch. She focussed on her breathing. Her legs felt like someone had run sharp blades over them, and her lungs were burning. She didn't care. In fact, it gave her something to think about other than the fact that she was too pissed off to even see straight.

She put out a quick hand to brace herself on the trunk of a tree as she turned to her left, where there were fewer rocks on the ground. She was so damn angry. _Talk to me._ Why the hell did he decide when the hell it was time to talk. _Talk to me._ He was the one who hadn't returned her calls for five fucking months. And then he decides it's time to talk. Fuck it. She didn't want to talk.

She jumped just in time to dodge a fallen tree trunk that lay across her path. She was done. Mac seethed. Her pace quickened, her breaths came in short, angry spurts. She'd tried. He'd ignored her. Damn him. She was done with him. Done.

She surfaced far enough out of her anger to notice the large rock jutting out over the path a few paces in front of her. She was running too fast, she realized. Damn it. That rock would destroy her ankle. Mac did all she could think of to do to avoid the impending disaster: she jumped forward, tucked and rolled, hoping she didn't hit something more valuable – like her head –against another rock.

--

Harm watched in horror as Mac dove forward and rolled to a halt on the ground. He was right behind her and running way too fast to avoid falling on her. Harm tried his best to skid to a halt, and realized too late that he should have tried to jump over her instead. He also realized too late that she'd jumped to avoid the rock jutting out of the forest floor. His foot caught on the rock, tripping him. He tumbled to the ground, falling on top of Mac in an unceremonious heap.

He lifted himself off of her as quickly as he could. She was lying on her side. He braced himself on his knees next to her, one hand on the ground and the other hovering uncertainly above her prone form.

"M –" He stopped himself just in time from saying her name. Lord knew how she'd react to that. "Are you okay?" He asked instead. She was breathing hard, her hair covering her face.

He brushed her hair from her face, not knowing what to say because he didn't know how she would respond. He figured the events of yesterday, hell, of the last few months, had finally caught up to her.

He moved her hand to look at her face, and a wave of panicked crashed into him when he saw the tears coursing down her cheeks.

"I can't," She sobbed, her hands swatting his away. "I can't do it anymore."

"Mac. Sarah, talk to me." He tried in vain to grab a solid hold of her. She kept moving away from his touch.

"No." She said forcefully, breathing hard. Her hands were covering her face.

"Are you hurt?" He ran his hands along her legs. "Is it your ankle? Your knee?" He looked up to see her still covering her face with her hands. He tried to quell his panic. "Let me see your face, Mac."

She suddenly pulled away from him in an abrupt movement. He watched as she absently wiped her face of her tears. She scooted along the ground until she was out of his reach, and lay down on her back. She stared at the canopy of trees above them, tears silently trailing down her temples, her hands clasped over her forehead, thumbs pressed into her temples. He was convinced he'd never felt this confused before. Or helpless. He watched her for a few long minutes, worried about her behaviour, unsure what to do. She said nothing. She only looked up at the sky through her tears, at the clouds that were drifting overhead. Finally, he lay down beside her, arm's length away, and stared at the clouds with her.

--

Mac kept her eyes on the intricate patterns made by the golden leaves against the sky. She focussed on the feel of the cool ground beneath her. It felt good. Lying here, feeling the exhausted contentment that only came from physical exertion. The rush. She'd pay the price once adrenaline wore off, especially after yesterday's ... events. Every high is followed by a crash. She knew that. She knew it...

She waited for the silent tears to stop falling, stared at the sky and the tree branches, blurred by her tears. She could admit that the cry had done her some good, too.

She turned her head to look at Harm. He was lying on his back, at arm's length, staring up at the clouds and the cover of leaves.

She'd tried to outrun him. He'd chased after her. They'd both fallen in a tangled heap.

How fitting, she thought wryly. It seemed all they did was take turns trying to get away from the other. He'd been running away from her as far and fast as he could for the last five months, she supposed the pendulum was due to swing the other way. It had been her turn. She sighed. They had to talk.

She reached out her hand and tugged his jacket sleeve. He turned his head to face her.

"I'm shouldn't have ..." She waved her hand over her shoulder, "That was … the stress."

He shrugged, she thought she saw a smile forming in his eyes.

"How's your head?" She asked again, because she didn't know what to say.

"Head's fine. It's my lungs that are burning. You put on quite the chase, Marine." The smile in his eyes took form on his lips. She could still see the worry line his face, but knew he was trying to hide it from her.

She felt embarrassed by her behaviour. She hadn't been thinking, just reacting. She needed to stop doing that, but didn't know where to start. How to start.

"Don't worry about it." He insisted, and she could hear his sincerity.

She turned her attention back to the clouds drifting across the sky. It was a textbook beautiful fall day.

"About Paraguay…" She trailed off when she felt his hand come to rest on her shoulder. She turned her head to look at him in question.

"Don't, Mac. I … I should've paid more attention. You'd been through a lot. I didn't…"

She put her hand over his to stop him from finishing his thought, "Same goes for me, Harm." She interrupted gently, not yet ready to go over all of that in detail just yet. She didn't know how to explain everything. Her need to run, to feel. Her conflicted feelings over Clay, the security blanket he offered. Harm wouldn't understand. She removed her hand from his.

She sighed and looked around her. The air was sharp and smelled of the dead leaves that littered the park. The ground beneath her was damp, and the cool undercurrent in the breeze chilled her skin. The warmth of the sun against her face was weak and waning. Birdcalls echoed through the trees, from those few holdouts that had not yet migrated south. The forest was ablaze with colour. Her lungs were still strained from the intense and prolonged sprinting she'd indulged in, the scratches on her legs were starting to sting and burn, and her sweat was trailing down her temples, beading on her heated skin. Her shoulder was warm where Harm's hand was still resting. The tears on her face were drying, leaving their trail over her skin.

She closed her eyes and concentrated on capturing this moment.

She didn't want to hide, didn't want to seek refuge under a blanket she'd only needed to quell her fear. She didn't want to miss all of this. She wanted so much more than what she'd found in that stale, stuffy cabin in Paraguay where the walls were suffocating her, where every breath threatened to shatter life. She opened her eyes. She needed more.

But could she have it? That had always been the question, she thought, and the answer had never yet worked in her favour.

--

Harm eyed Mac warily from the corner of his eye. Her expression was so intense, focussed, but he couldn't tell what she was thinking. He remembered the woman who had walked into the CIA briefing room. It felt like a lifetime ago. He hadn't been able read her, he'd resented her, wanted to be rid of her, felt angry and furious and hurt and slighted. She was nothing like the woman lying next to him, covered in scratches and dirt and leaves. This was the woman he knew, loved. She had been hiding behind her own hurt and anger and sense of failure, but he hadn't seen it. He'd been too busy hiding behind his.

He looked up at the sky and sighed. He really screwed up. He could grudgingly admit that the Admiral had a point. He'd been willing and ready to give up everything to go find her, but he'd done nothing once he'd found her, couldn't keep her because he hadn't bothered trying. What would've happened if—

No, he berated himself. No 'what ifs'. 'What now' was the real question.

Without daring to look at her he trailed his hand down her arm, and took her hand in his, holding it carefully. She started as his hand first moved, but then went absolutely still, her hand lying loosely in his. He was relieved and warmed beyond words that she didn't pull away from him. He glanced at her: her eyes were still searching the sky and the forest for something. What was she looking for? He wondered if he could he see it, whatever it was.

They lay there for a long while, until the sky began darkening as the cloud cover thickened, and the cool air chilled further under the waning sun.

He caught her slight shiver through their joined hands, and remembered that she was wearing only a long-sleeved t-shirt and shorts, probably both damp with sweat and cooling rapidly against her skin. She must be freezing. He sat up and tugged her hand to pull her up before letting go. She rubbed her hands over her arms as she sat up.

"Come on, Mac. We'll catch cold." He removed his coat and draped it over her shoulders.

They both stood with much difficulty, stiff and sore from their recent fall, and their earlier ones.

He was stretching his shoulders and she was loosening her calf muscles when they caught each other's eye. They both laughed softly, uncertainly.

"Getting too old for this." She said lightly. Her bearing was uneasy, her words hesitant.

"Speak for yourself, Marine," he smiled in response, watching her as she brushed away the damp leaves that were sticking to her skin and clothes. The bright red and orange and gold leaves fell to the ground like drops of fire. He was reminded again of how beautiful she was.

Tentatively, he put his hand out to her. She eyed his outstretched hand for a moment before just as tentatively reaching for it. He looked at their joined hands, marvelling at the quiet comfort he could feel from such a tiny gesture. He glanced at her, and caught her watching him. He could see exhaustion line her face, could see the uncertainty and doubt in her eyes. No, he thought, he had not realized what a toll the mission in Paraguay had taken on her.

He tugged her hand and they made their way through the forest, towards his car. The only sounds that could be heard was the soft sound of the leaves beneath their feet, and all he could feel was her cold, slender hand holding his in a firm, almost vice-like grip. It wasn't necessary, he thought: he wasn't going to let her go.


	5. Chapter 5

**Fallout**

Part 5

Disclaimer: Don't own'em

A/N: Thanks for all the comments. I love that you guys are enjoying this so much. Makes my day.

--

Mac's Apartment

Sunday

1123 Local

"You still need groceries." He commented as he watched her enter the kitchen dressed in sweats, freshly showered. It was all he could think of to say in the few minutes while she'd been in the shower and he'd washed the mugs they had left in the sink this morning. He'd never washed mugs so thoroughly before.

"Yeah." She shrugged tiredly. "I'll go later."

He remembered her 1kg bag of oatmeal and tried to quash his resentment.

"Coffee? Or would you rather something to eat?" He asked instead.

She shook her head. "But help yourself. I'll make myself some green tea. I think I may have something sweet you can have with your coffee, if you like."

"I'll make us both green tea," he offered. He put the water to boil, not thinking about when she might've decided to start buying green tea. He'd never known her to keep any at her place.

She nodded and went to what he called her 'carb cupboard' in search of the sweet stuff she'd mentioned. He knew how cookies usually brightened even her dullest moods.

He was surprised to find her pull out only one box of wheat crackers and one of breadsticks. She definitely needed to go grocery shopping.

He took the bag of green tea out of her cupboard and found it to be a very high end brand of tea leaves, nothing Mac would ever buy for herself. Probably Webb. He knew Webb had expensive tastes in just about everything, including foods. He didn't cook , but he was a gourmet. Oddly epicurean for a CIA agent, Harm had always thought. But he supposed old money could do that to a person. He decided he wasn't in the mood for green tea. He'd have coffee.

He opened her fridge door to pull out milk for his coffee, and found it empty except for some boiled rice, pasta, bread, milk, a container of plain yoghurt and a Tupperware of what looked like home-made chicken soup. He didn't think he'd ever seen her fridge so bare. If she didn't have real food, she always had at least a lot of meat – especially cold cuts – and leftover take-out containers.

Everything in here was bland, plain ... He remembered the oatmeal again. If she was only eating dry pasta or rice, toast and crackers, then she really had been buying it for herself. He wondered what had her eating such foods. Stress? Guilt threatened to drown him at the realization.

He wanted to apologize for the comment he'd made in the grocery store. It had started this whole thing. At least he would've been with her when Sadik called. He wanted to apologize but he didn't think she'd appreciate it. Not at this point, after he'd dug in her cupboards and ruled out Webb as the reason for the change in her diet. He sighed.

"Here." Her soft voice pulled him from his reverie. He looked down to see her hand offering him a cup of coffee. He glanced at her, his hand still on the handle to the fridge door.

She shrugged. "You were just staring into my fridge. The kettle whistling didn't even get your attention. I thought I'd make the drinks."

"Thanks." He glanced down at the mug of coffee, and then took it from her.

"I'm afraid all I have are crackers and breadsticks. I think may have some pound cake in the freezer, but it might be rather old." She filled the silence.

"That's alright," He said. "Just coffee is fine."

He watched her as she walked towards the living room. She'd been covered by her uniform when he'd seen her at Langley. Now she was covered by a sweatshirt. And he hadn't really looked at her body in the last two days. He wondered how much weight she'd lost, and if it was noticeable. If all she was eating was the stuff in her fridge ... He sighed again with worry and followed her into the living room. He had to find a way to get her to talk to him.

He sat down on the opposite end of the couch from her. She was holding her cup of tea, her legs stretched out on the couch between them.

"Sorry for taking all this room," She tilted her head to indicate her outstretched legs. "The scratches are really burning."

"Did you put any cream or ointment on them?" He glanced at her face.

She shook her head, and stood up to head to her room. "It'd probably help," She conceded.

He watched her walk away. Once she was out of sight, he shifted his gaze to the coffee table. He wondered if she'd had a chance to talk to Webb. He deserved to know Sadik was dead.

"Have you spoken with Webb?" He asked when she stepped back into the living room. He thought he sounded passably supportive.

She shook her head as she sat down on the couch. She stared at the tube of ointment in her hands.

"He'll call me." She replied in a subdued tone. "Kershaw's probably already told him. He went to his family's place on the shore to be alone. I won't intrude."

Harm nodded, and wondered at the odd nature of their relationship. How could a phone call about something so significant be an intrusion. He expected he'd never figure them out. To his surprise, Mac kept talking.

"He had a tough week with PT. The shocks did a number on his system." He found her voice to be oddly detached.

"He needs you," Harm said quietly. He hated the idea. Hated it, absolutely hated it. But what could he do about it. He had no control over Mac.

She shook her head absently, lost in thought. "As much as I need him."

That was not what he wanted to hear. He was ready to get up and leave, make his excuses – headache, nausea, a broken heart – but she kept speaking.

"It's strange you know, what people do to survive. Coping mechanisms. It's like giving up just isn't built into us."

He waited, and watched her as she spoke. Her eyes were fixed on the tube of ointment. She was still and serious and something else he couldn't name. Whatever it was, it kept him from walking out her door.

"Take the missionaries Sadik was holding." She continued, her tone was still detached. He wondered where she was. "It was stupid really. We should've banded together. Cooperated. But fear and this primordial need to survive tend to overpower everything. So she blew our covers to Sadik and he shot them both dead anyways. Execution style. Made sure I was watching. I don't know who he did that for. Bastard was quite the showman."

She was speaking so unlike herself, her normal logic and sequencing gone. He had trouble following her but she continued, either unaware or uncaring. Or both.

"And every time they threw Clay back into the cabin, with ..." He felt her release a breath. Her dispassion faltered, her voice tripped and skidded, lost its detached steadiness, "With new burn marks and bruises and fresh blood ... I don't know how to..." She shook her head briskly, took a steadying breath before continuing.

"And he needed something to keep going, to not give up. I was the only thing there, so I was it." She twisted the cap on the tube of ointment off, then on again, repeatedly. She was speaking more rapidly now.

"And I couldn't do anything but sit on my hands, put in useless efforts at planning an escape just so I could block out the sound of his screaming, knowing that the next time the door opened it wouldn't be to throw him in but to pull me out. It got to the point where part of me hoped they would just take me, so I could stop worrying about the when and just face it. And so every time he was thrown back in and I wasn't pulled out, and he looked up at me, with that desperation, that need ... it gave me what I needed. To keep from completely losing it." She stopped, and he could hear her rapid breathing slow.

"And I still ..." She trailed of, her voice so quiet he had to strain to hear.

"And then we came back here and everything should've gone back to normal, except scars take a long time to heal, and memories take a long time to forget, and instincts take even longer to remember that they're only habits born of necessity. So the necessity was gone, but the habit was still there." She paused, then amended. "_Is_ still here."

She turned to look at him then, breaking the stillness in the room, catching him off guard. He'd been staring at her so intently while she spoke.

"Do you understand, Harm?"

She studied his face with a wary hesitancy. It made him realize how important the answer was for her.

"I need ... do you to understand?" She repeated.

She sounded so lost, was almost pleading. It was so unlike her. He knew she needed to talk to a professional – this was bigger than just a need to relieve some stress. He also knew she'd bite his head off if he so much as suggested it, let alone insisted. If there was one thing he'd learned about Sarah MacKenzie, it was that she needed to be eased into doing things she was fighting against.

"I understand." He replied, looking her in the eye. He kicked himself for not seeing it before, but he hadn't been in a place where he could've seen it, had he? Apparently Sadik wasn't the only one holding her captive. "Stockholm Syndrome."

Her lip curled wryly. "With another hostage?" She turned away from him and stared at the far wall. He realized that she thought he wasn't taking her seriously, thought he was being snide. His comment hurt her, which worried him.

He moved to sit across from her on the coffee table. He set the tube of ointment she was holding on the table and wrapped his hands around hers.

"Is Webb talking to someone about this?" He asked as gently as he could. 'Webb' had become a swear word for him in recent months.

She nodded, eyeing him warily. "SOP for the CIA after ... that kind of mission."

"Are you?"

Her face hardened suddenly, her eyes turned to steel. She shook her head curtly.

"He got into your head, Mac. Sadik." He said carefully. He was ready for an all out battle on this, was ready to dig his heels in, but he hoped it wouldn't come to that.

"He's gone, Harm." Her tone was final.

"Mac. I heard what he said to you." Harm continued patiently, tried to reason with her. That tended to work with Mac, she usually responded well to it. "You were wearing a wire."

"He's dead, Harm." She repeated stubbornly.

"That doesn't solve anything." He took a breath to calm himself when he felt his patience withering. "That doesn't mean it's over. You're still alive, and you have to live with what happened. To you, to Webb, to those missionaries ... to Sadik. " He held his breath, waiting for her reaction.

"I was in control." Her tone didn't waver. He had his work cut out for him.

"I know you were. I'm not saying you weren't, Mac. We both know how to finish a mission. We also both know that the mission doesn't end when someone stamps 'complete' on the folder and files the paperwork."

She nodded reluctantly.

"Don't sweep this under the rug. There are ways to keep this off your record. Webb might be able to help with that. The CIA owes you, the least they can do is refer a civilian for you to talk to." He realized he'd have to be really patient with her and Webb's relationship, as much as it irked him. He'd try his damndest, he promised himself. He'd try. She had acknowledged the skewed nature of her relationship with Webb, and if she saw it as such then ... then it was something. That's what he would tell himself.

She didn't look convinced by his argument, but he decided to let it go. She was considering it, which was enough for now.

They sat in silence for a few moments, and he took the time to admire her hands as he held them in his.

"You went in alone." He finally said. He looked at her face to gauge her reaction.

"It was something I had to do." Her response was immediate, unequivocal.

He could almost taste her conviction. He studied her carefully, and decided to test the waters.

"I would've come with you." He ventured.

"He was watching me. He only called once you walked away, and you still got a concussion. He wouldn't have hesitated to kill you and make me watch, he probably would've gotten off on it." She pointed out her voice steadily rising as she spoke. She paused and took several slow, deep breaths. She looked down at their joined hands. A few moments later, only when her emotions were under control, did she speak. "Besides, I knew you'd find me."

She tilted her face to look at him, her expression saying so much, feeling so much, he could not begin to read it. "We always find each other when lives are on the line," she finished.

It was the first time since he'd listened to the last message she'd left on his answering machine that he heard warmth in her voice.

She squeezed his hand. "Something I learned in Paraguay." She concluded.

"I learned it in the Atlantic Ocean." He looked up at her, eyebrows raised, hoping to underscore his sincerity.

She looked shocked and then, to his surprise, she laughed softly, shaking her head. "We're terrible learners."

He joined her, delighted by the sound of her laughter, the lightness in her tone. He hadn't heard it in such a long time. "Dismal." He concurred.

Her laughter faded and she eyed him, looking thoughtful, considering him carefully. She was debating something. He waited for her decision.

Finally, she spoke. Her tone was tentative yet hopeful. "Permission to hug the spy?" He watched as she bit her lip at the last word, and struggled to keep from laughing. He guessed she was worried she might have offended him.

He simply grinned in response; he'd been thinking she needed a hug since he saw her standing over Sadik, watching him die.

"Granted." He slid onto the couch, held out his arms and pulled her into a firm embrace. He held her tightly, revelled in her familiar scent, the feel of her soft hair against his cheek, her warm body so close to his, her arms holding him just as tightly. She had lost weight, he could feel it. Her body was more wiry, muscled, angular.

He couldn't bear the thought that this hug would have to end at some point. God, how he'd missed her. He was holding everything he'd ever need in his arms.

He wanted her to give him another chance.

He pulled back slightly, just enough to look at her. His arms held her close to his body.

"Mac. I'm going to resign from the CIA."

Her expression went from contented to alarmed.

"What?" She exclaimed, dumbfounded. "Harm. No. Don't ... I didn't ... Not for ..."

He cut off her fumbled attempts to articulate her objection.

"Not for you, Mac. Not for me. For us, both of us." He waited for her reaction, but lost his patience and his nerve quickly. "Please let me do this, Mac. I don't want to have to worry about the damn CIA and I don't want you to have to. We have a lot to work through."

He didn't know how to explain it to her without offending her. If he was working for the CIA he'd be gone for stretches of time without being able to tell her where he was going or what he was doing. That was hardly going to help her recovery from the shitfest of Paraguay and all the fallout. As it was Webb worked for the CIA, and it was the CIA that sent her to Paraguay, and then left her to the wolves – bastards even did a crap job of her psych eval. And the Admiral didn't bother following up either ... Harm stopped himself from thinking about the Admiral.

He wanted to be there for Mac. He knew what he had to do to keep her, and he wanted to do it. He needed to do it.

"We have a lot to work through, and we need to be there for each other." He struggled to find a better way to convince her. He studied her intently. "Ask me again."

"Ask you again?" She seemed a little lost, and he had to remind himself that she couldn't read all of his thoughts.

"The question, Mac ... Riddle me this," He prompted.

She hesitated for an instant, and searched his eyes. Then straightened her spine and took a breath, steeling herself. But her voice only came out as a whisper, and held nothing of the false bravado she'd put forward on that bed in Paraguay. "You damn near got yourself killed to come find me. Why?"

He didn't even let himself pause to think it over.

"Because you're all that matters, Mac, and nothing I do could ever be enough to show how important you are, how much you mean to me, how much I love you." He cupped her face with his hands, ran his thumbs over her cheeks, and poured in all the sincerity he was made of into his words.

"I want to spend the rest of my life with you, Mac, and there's nothing I wouldn't do to make that happen."

He watched the tears silently gather in her eyes, watched them drop one by one from her eyelashes and trail down her cheeks. She looked a bit disbelieving, overwhelmed. He wondered if maybe she wasn't ready to hear this just yet, if he should've waited...

"I mean it, Mac." He hugged her close and whispered into her ear, tried to convey just how fiercely he felt this. "I can say it now because I mean it."

He felt her slow nod against his neck.

"On your timeline, Mac." He added. "I'm not going anywhere."

She pulled back, her face wet with tears, her eyes reddened. He smiled at the picture she presented, and again felt that inexplicable tug towards her. He knew he'd never stop feeling it.

"I'll talk to Clay about ... about talking to someone." Mac began hesitantly. "Maybe his therapist can refer me to someone." She paused as she looked him in the eye. "I would also do anything, Harm, if it meant having you in my life. Anything for you."

"I know." He slowly leaned in to her and kissed her on the cheek, satisfying himself with letting his lips linger on her warm, soft skin, still damp from her tears. He didn't want to chance doing more when both their emotions were running high, and her vulnerabilities even more so.

"We're learning." She teased, a hesitant smile waiting for him when he pulled back.

He grinned, beyond pleased to be on the receiving end of her sense of humour.

"Slowly but surely, Sarah." It took all his strength not to kiss her, to ignore the feel of her delicate hands resting on his chest.

She kept looking at him, humour replaced by a deep intensity. He was about to start worrying when she leaned forward and kissed him lightly. He closed his eyes and concentrated on the sensation of her lips touching his. Not daring to move because he didn't think he'd be able to stop himself from doing something monumentally premature and inappropriate.

He felt her pull back, but only opened his eyes when the warmth of her lips faded from his. She was still watching him, her intensity not wavering. He forced himself to look away. He needed to break the weight of the moment. His eyes fell on the tube of ointment. He picked it up and uncapped the lid.

"Here," he said gently, squeezing some of the cream onto his fingers. He moved back to sit on the coffee table. Perched at a safe distance from her. "Let's take a look at your legs."

"I can take care of it, Harm." She rested her hand on his forearm.

He looked up at her, eyebrow raised. "The cream's already out of the tube, Mac." One corner of his lip lifted in a smile. "I can't put it back."

She didn't respond, instead she stared at the palms of his hands. Harm followed her gaze; she'd caught sight of the scratch marks he'd gotten from the asphalt at the back of the grocery store. He watched her expression, mesmerized, as she ran of her fingers over the scrape marks criss-crossing his palms. She was looking at his hands so attentively. Finally, she looked into his eyes and gave him an unselfconscious grin. She let go his hands and rolled up her sweatpants.

He returned her smile and took her right foot, placing it on his knee. As tenderly as he knew how, he rubbed the ointment onto the scratches along her leg. She really had done a number on herself, he thought, intent on his task, his mind replaying the look on her face as she'd examined his hands. It occurred to him that they'd always been there for each other during the fight, but had never stuck around for the post-fight. What had he said? The mission doesn't end with paperwork being filed? He could learn something from that too. They'd saved each other countless times. But how often were they there for each other when it came time to heal, to deal with the outcomes, and to recover from the consequences?

That was going to change.


	6. Chapter 6

**Fallout**

Part 6

Disclaimer: Don't own'em

--

JAG HQ

Monday

1131 Local

Mac had successfully drowned herself in the draining minutiae of paperwork all morning. It was a tough job, but someone had to do it. She wished Harm were here so she could complain. It had been one of the things she'd missed most about his absence from the office. Hell, to be honest there were a lot of things she missed about how things used to be in this office.

Her phone rang, interrupting her rather morose thoughts. She sent up silent thanks for the distraction.

"MacKenzie." She answered.

"Good morning, MacKenzie," Harm cheerfully greeted her.

"Harm." She grinned into the receiver, savouring the sound of his voice. When was the last time he'd called her? She sobered as she remembered the probable reason for his call. "So, how'd it go?"

"You're talking to a free agent, Mac. And not _that_ kind of agent." His smile was audible, but she couldn't shake her guilt, her sense of responsibility. It had kept her from getting much sleep after he'd left her apartment last night.

"Harm. I'm sorry..."

"None of that, Mac." He cut in sternly. "I haven't felt this good in five months."

She wasn't entirely convinced.

"What're you doing now?" She tried to keep her guilt from being apparent, and to sound supportive.

"Well, I was thinking of blowing the last of my nest egg on a Harley," He replied conversationally. "Gunning it down some country roads and finding a job with more regular hours and no benefits. Like crop dusting. Maybe milking cows. Delivering newspapers."

"That would probably be the most mature, responsible thing to do," She teased. "How about instead you meet me for lunch."

"You have the time?" He inquired, surprised.

She shook her head and sighed as she eyed the bullpen through her office window. Then she remembered he couldn't see her, so she answered him verbally. "I'll make the time. I need to get out of here for a bit."

"Take the rest of the afternoon off." He suggested. "I'll make it worth your while."

"Sounds tempting, but I'd rather not. I'm not in the mood to talk to the Admiral – Oh," She tried to recant hastily. "Sorry." She'd noticed this weekend that Chegwidden had become a touchy subject for Harm, and she promised herself to avoid mentioning his former superior to him, at least for time being.

"What did he do now?" His tone turned cold, steely. She could imagine the look on his face. He needed to come to terms with this, she knew, resolve it somehow. There were so many things that needed to be fixed. So many things.

"Nothing, Harm." She hastened to assure him. "I promise. He just ... isn't himself and it's starting to get a bit ... much. JAG Ops just isn't what you remember."

"Well, Ms. MacKenzie, why don't you tell me more about it over lunch." He cut in, trying for some levity. Mac smiled at his attempt to put her at ease.

"I'd rather talk about other things." She replied, following his hint.

"Like what?" He sounded quite earnest. Her smile deepened.

"Like where you learned to ride a Harley."

He laughed. "Is that your wild side I'm hearing?"

"You haven't met my wild side yet, Harmon." She grinned, exhilarated by the thought that she was flirting so boldly with him.

"I can't wait." He replied smoothly. She could picture the look in his eyes.

"Neither can I ..." A sudden noise from the bullpen reminded her where she was, and how different everything had become in the past few months. She bit back her sigh, not wanting Harm to worry. "Where shall I meet you?"

"Is that sandwich place still open?"

"Yup."

"Give me 20 minutes, I'll meet you there."

"See you, Harm." She said, brightening at the prospect. She couldn't wait to get out of the office.

"In a few, Mac."

She hung up the phone and started gathering her things with a spring to her step. She hadn't felt this ... good in ages. Or this hungry. She grinned.

She'd collected her purse and put on her coat when her phone rang again. She debated not picking it up, but since she didn't plan on worrying about taking a long lunch, she decided she ought to at least pretend to care about work before she left for her long lunch. She picked up the phone.

"MacKenzie."

"Sarah, it's me."

"Clay." A cannonball of unease took up firm residence in the pit of Mac's stomach. "Did you have a good weekend?" Her voice sounded fake to her own ears.

"Kershaw just told me what happened on Saturday." He stated, and then hesitated. She wondered which question he would ask her first. "Why didn't you call me."

She was oddly unsurprised, though disappointed, that he picked that question. No please, Clay, she thought to herself. Don't worry. I'm fine.

"I didn't know if I'd be able to reach you." One part honesty, one part avoidance.

There was a notable pause on his end. He finally spoke. "Are you free for dinner."

Mac hesitated. She did have to face him, she reasoned. They needed to talk. She had to tell him...

"I, uh, actually need to talk about something with you."

"I'll make reservations. There's a new place that opened up this weekend. They have a fantastic wine cellar and the chef is renowned for his duck confit."

"No, Clay. Not over dinner." She didn't want to sit across the table from him while he drank a 100 bottle of wine on his own. She wanted them both to have a clear head. "I'll stop by to see you after work. Are you at home?"

There was another pause on his end. "My apartment."

"Okay. I'll be there after work."

He remained silent.

"Clay?"

"After work." He repeated. "I'll see you later then."

He hung up without waiting for her response. He had never done that before. She kept holding the phone until the intermittent beep of a disconnected line sounded in her ear, startling her out of her stupor.

She put the phone down, and tried to tame the sudden waves of guilt that mercilessly battered her resolve.

No, she told herself. She could do this. She could. She sat down heavily on her chair and stared unseeing at her phone. She would go see Clay after work. Right now, she was going to meet Harm for lunch. And she was going to be late, she realized with a start. Mac jumped out of her chair and hurried towards the elevators.

--

The Sandwich Box

Monday

1202 Local

Harm took a seat at one of the tables in the restaurant. He glanced at his watch: Mac was late. It was unlike her, but he figured she got caught up at work. He tried to convince himself not to worry – he wouldn't admit to her that he was more than a little concerned about her, concerned she'd just crumble under the weight of worry she seemed to be carrying. He wished she'd talk to someone about it. He'd just about convinced himself not to fret when Mac rushed in through the restaurant doors. She caught sight of him and broke into a smile, making her way around the tables and chairs. He stood up and pulled out a chair for her, leaning in to place a kiss on her cheek.

"Hey, Mac."

He grinned as he pulled back, and was pleased to see the muted delight on her face. He could still see, though, that something was troubling her.

"Harm." She gave him a brief smile and took a seat across from him.

They both opened their menus. He could see that she wasn't really looking at the booklet in front of her. He was about to ask her about her mood when she looked at him, her expression wary and reluctant and worried.

"Clay called me just after I hung up with you. That's the reason I'm late." She paused, then added, "I'm sorry."

"What for?" He looked down, studying his menu intently, trying to feign indifference at hearing Webb's name, trying to ignore the worry that was gnawing right through his stomach lining. Trying not to panic over the reason behind her apology. Trying not to get upset over it.

"For making you wait here." She replied.

"I haven't been here that long, Mac." That sounded more impatient than he'd intended. He paused, and had to convince himself to continue. He was an adult. It was an effort to keep the bitterness out of his tone, he knew she'd react to it if she detected it. "How's Webb?" He glanced up from his menu, at Mac.

"He's not doing well." She looked so sad, guilty. He didn't know what to make of it, how to feel about it.

"Oh." Was all he could say. He reminded himself that he was the one she'd kissed last night.

She watched him carefully as she spoke her next words.

"I'm going to go see him after work today. To ..." She searched his face. "Explain things."

Harm managed to nod. He hoped it came across as encouraging.

"And ask him if his therapist can refer me to someone." She continued.

Harm nodded again, a lot more easily and sincerely this time. "That's good, Mac."

"Yeah," she agreed half-heartedly.

They sat in silence and stared at their menus. Harm wasn't actually able to register any of the words printed in front of him. He wondered if Mac was faring any better.

He suddenly felt her fingers come to rest on his wrist. He looked up to see Mac watching him, her expression earnest.

"Harm. I need to explain things to Clay. About you and me. And where we stand with each other. He needs ... he needs his friends."

He needs you, Harm thought silently, and his gaze dropped to his menu. He forced himself to look back up at Mac.

"Anything I can do?" He tried to sound supportive. He really did want to help her. But why the hell did she have to help Webb.

She hesitated.

"Name it, Mac." He insisted, hating that she was hesitating.

"I've really missed that grilled salmon with mango salsa that you make." She said finally.

He laughed despite himself. Leave it to Mac to think of dinner before she'd even ordered her lunch. "It'll be my pleasure, Mac."

"I'm not sure what time I'll be over." She informed him. Her regret was plain to see, which made him feel better. "It shouldn't take more than a half hour—"

"Take your time, Mac." He assured her, feeling generous at the sight of how hard this seemed to be for her. He turned his hand, palm upwards, and wrapped his fingers around hers.

"Thanks, Harm." She gave him a warm, thankful smile and went back to perusing her menu. Her hand stayed in his.

He studied her over the top of his menu, and noticed that she held her smile as she read the day's specials. It was then that he realized what she'd just done. She knew how therapeutic cooking was for him; it would give him something to do other than worry about her and Webb talking about ... stuff. He smiled at how well she knew him, at how hard she was trying. His admiration for her went up a notch, as did his faith in the thing between them, whatever it was, and he contented himself with simply watching her read her menu until the waiter came to take their lunch orders.

--

Webb's Apartment

Monday

1753 Local

Mac watched Clay as he stared out of the window. He'd let her into his apartment after she'd knocked, given one word answers to her inquiries about his health, and then he'd just stood with his back to her, staring out the window. In silence. She could see the tension in his bearing.

She wondered how much Kershaw had told him about Saturday. Did he know Harm was a part of the mission? That he'd resigned from the CIA?

She didn't know how to start. She wanted so keenly not to hurt him, but wasn't sure whose sake that was for, his or hers.

"Clay, I ..." She wished she'd rehearsed during the drive over instead of concentrating on keeping her lunch down. She decided on being blunt about it. He deserved her honesty, she told herself. "Do you remember that conversation we had? Down ... there? About my already having the right man?"

Webb turned and stared at her, his face fell. He looked broken. He nodded slowly. "This is about Rabb."

It was Mac's turn to nod. She swallowed the lump in her throat.

"You said he'd run right over you." Clay stated, it sounded like an accusation.

"You said I needed a man who would stand up to me." She replied, and knew it came out sounding defensive. Only after she spoke, did she realize that it may offend him.

"Do you?" He eyed her carefully. She felt like she was under interrogation, and wondered how much of that impression just stemmed from her own unease at this situation.

"What?" She frowned, unable to understand the question. It wasn't like Clay to be a miser with his words.

"Need Rabb." His expression didn't change.

She paused to give it some thought. Finally, she shook her head. "If there's one thing I've learned, it's that none of us really need anything. We just make ourselves believe we do." She looked down at her hands, unexpectedly saddened at hearing that thought voiced out loud. She looked back at Clay. "But his support makes things ... more manageable."

"The same goes for me, Sarah." He said earnestly. "Your support does that. Makes things more manageable." There was a desperate edge to his voice.

"I'm still your friend, Clay. You still have my support." She insisted.

He didn't say anything to that, just stared out the window.

"Clay." She changed tracks, feeling increasingly unsettled. "The therapist you're seeing, do you think he could refer someone to me?"

"No." He did not look at her.

She started, confused. "What does that mean?"

"I'm not seeing the counsellor." His words were sharp. "My sessions ended a few weeks ago."

"A few weeks?" She stared at him. "But..."

"I'm fine, Sarah," he said irritably. "I'm in control. I know what I'm doing. Besides, he's dead."

She heard herself in his words. They were eerily reminiscent of the ones she'd told Harm. They echoed relentlessly in her head. _I'm fine. He's dead. I'm fine. He's dead. _She closed her eyes, and tried to regain her balance. When she opened them, Clay was looking right at her, his expression was ... discomfiting.

"He's dead." He repeated. "You killed him." He was watching her intently, trying to read something in her eyes. She guessed what it was. She didn't want him to see it in her, but she could not look away. She needed to leave. She couldn't breathe.

"How did it feel, Sarah? The report says you stabbed him. That's a very ... intimate way of killing someone." The words rolled off his tongue. She was having difficulty seeing him. What was happening.

She needed to leave.

"Killing someone always is an intimate experience." His eyes were on her, but his gaze turned distant, his voice an afterthought. "Just you, him, and the life hanging between you. And then you're left. Alone. You only die once, after all. Can only kill once."

His words shook her from her sudden suffocating claustrophobia. _Alone_? It didn't sound right. Her worry for him increased. She quashed her unease.

"Clay." She touched her hand to his arm. His gaze focussed on her, he pulled himself out of his mind and looked at her, mildly curious. "You need to talk to someone about this. All of it." She insisted.

"I'm fine, Mac." His tone brooked no room for dissent.

"Clay—"

"Go, Mac. To your right man." He turned back to the window.

"Clay. Listen to me. You need to—"

"They're putting me back in the field as soon as the physical therapist clears me. I think a couple more weeks, at the most." He didn't look at her, kept staring at the red and golden leaves on the branches just outside the window.

She tried again, felt like she was floundering. "You—"

"It'll be good to be back at work again." He cut her off.

She realized she would not be getting anywhere with him today. It was time for a strategic retreat.

"Call me if you need anything, Clay. And I mean anything." She tried not to sound too disappointed or too desperate.

He looked her right in the eye, his tone solemn, abrupt, final. "Not anything, Sarah." He shook his head. "Not anything."

They stared at each other for a long moment. She slowly turned on her heel and left, unable to bring herself to look back.

She wondered if she'd ever hear from him again. She hoped fervently, selfishly, that she would.

--


	7. Chapter 7

**Fallout**

Part 7

Disclaimer: Don't own'em

--

JAG HQ

Tuesday

1947 Local

Mac stared at the phone on her desk. Her conversation with Clay kept repeating itself in her mind. The expression on his face. She remembered her 'encounter' with Sadik. She felt disgusted with herself. What had she done. She'd wanted to break him like he'd wanted to break Clay, break her. What did that make her?

Damn it. She hated thinking these days. It was just too much.

But Clay's words kept replaying in her mind. And the way his behaviour so oddly echoed hers. It was like looking at herself in a funhouse mirror. It was Clay. It was her. It was ... It was all so fucked up. Mac closed her eyes and took a deep breath.

She'd told Harm she would do anything to have him in her life. She hadn't been lying. If she could be sure of nothing else, she could be sure of that. She would do what she had to, and she knew both of them deserved better than her hearing Sadik's voice every time she tried to think, and her seeing Clay's face – pleading and desperate and lost and abandoned – every time she closed her eyes.

Mac picked up her phone. Time to put your money where your mouth is, MacKenzie.

--

Harm's Apartment

Wednesday

2307 Local

Harm sat on his couch and re-read the handwritten note he held for what must have been the millionth time. He needed to get a job. He'd quit the CIA on Monday, and today was Wednesday. It had been, what, two days? Two and a half? He'd gone and flown Sarah yesterday. It had been great. But today, he just needed ... Christ. He sighed. It hadn't helped that he had not seen Mac all of yesterday and today. He'd expected to see her at some point yesterday, to hear from her. Things had been going smoothly, he thought, Sunday and Monday. Well, mostly a few hours on Sunday and a few hours on Monday. And then she'd gone incommunicado. Well, she had left a note – had slid it under his door Tuesday evening. But it wasn't much of a note. It said as much as it didn't say.

_Harm._

_I had an appointment at Bethesda this afternoon. I need some time to sort through what happened during the session. I'll come to you._

_Mac._

What had she told him on Sunday? She needed him to understand. Harm stared at the note in his hand, and read it for what must have been the million and first time. I'm trying Mac, he replied silently. I'm trying.

She'd come over for dinner on Monday night, but had been withdrawn and introspective. He had been desperate to know what had happened during her conversation with Clay, but couldn't be sure it was his place to ask. Or rather, he wasn't sure she wouldn't just walk out without answering, In hindsight, he knew she wouldn't have done that. He was generally able to get Mac to talk to him, Guadalcanal notwithstanding. But she had looked so vulnerable Monday night, like she was about to fall apart, and he couldn't bring himself to try to draw her out.

Well, he thought ruefully, to be perfectly honest: he couldn't bring himself to ask because he wasn't convinced he would like the answer. It was stupid of him, he knew. How could anything work between them if they didn't talk to each other? He berated himself, he was one to talk. He had successfully ignored her for almost five months. At least she'd left him a note last night, just as she'd left him sixteen messages on his answering machine. He would count the paper in his hands as number seventeen. He would also count it as the last time he didn't respond to a missive from her or kept himself from drawing her out, even if she was the one asking that he do just that. Even if he was afraid of how she'd react to his insistence.

It was just that he didn't think he could bear a repeat of Monday night, where they'd eaten dinner in a silence peppered by their stilted conversation, his worry and her distance. She had, however, thoroughly complimented his fish, he reminded himself, trying to find something else positive to think about.

And once they'd finished eating and cleaning up, she'd said she was tired and should head home. It was a weeknight. She'd laid a kiss on his cheek, said goodnight and drifted out his door. He'd felt absolutely powerless, useless, lost.

At least he knew she'd gone to talk to someone yesterday. He hoped good things came of this, he hoped her recovery was smooth. He hoped she didn't push him away in her almost pathological need to do everything for herself, by herself.

But she'd said she would do anything to spend a life with him. He hoped she didn't forget that.

He was hoping for a lot.

He needed a job.

Tomorrow. Tomorrow, he'd update his resume – that ought to be an interesting challenge, if nothing else – and scour want ads or whatever it was people did to find jobs these days. He needed to do something other than worry about Sarah MacKenzie, even if he didn't really feel like doing anything but.

--

Harm's Apartment

Thursday

1902 Local

Mac knocked on Harm's door and waited for a response. She should've called first. She couldn't assume he'd just be home when she was ready to talk to him. She…

The door swung open and Harm stood in front of her. She watched his expression flit from surprise to relief to worry. It remained stuck on worry.

She forced a smile. She felt terrible about disappearing on him yesterday and Tuesday, but he'd always been the kind to persist and push when it came to getting her to talk and frankly she just wasn't ready to talk. She wanted to be left alone.

She also needed to come up with a better solution for dealing with Harm's sometimes obsessive doggedness, she knew, but for the life of her couldn't fathom what that may be.

One day at a time, MacKenzie. One day.

"Come on in, Mac." He motioned her inside.

"Thanks, Harm." He took her coat as she entered. She watched him hang it up.

"I want to apologize for, uh..." She trailed off, unsure of how to be tactful.

"Avoiding me?" He supplied, watching her with an intent, serious expression.

She laughed nervously. "For going UA on you."

He remained silent at her comment.

She dropped her gaze to a point on the floor, and jumped into the conversation he was waiting for.

"Thing is, that session ... That session was intense. When I was speaking with Clay on Monday evening, he was ... I ... I don't know how to ..." She huffed, impatient with her clumsiness. She took a deep breath. "He said the same things I told you," She waved her hand aimlessly. "About being able to handle what happened. And he said the strangest thing." She paused as she recalled Clay's words and the look on his face, but abruptly shook herself out of it. Harm. She was talking to Harm.

"You know he stopped his sessions weeks ago?" She looked at him for the first time since she started speaking. All of his attention was focussed on her, which unsettled her. She looked away. "I realized that if he couldn't admit that he needed to talk to someone, then maybe you were seeing in me what I was seeing him in. And then I realized that he … that I … I realized that if I wanted this thing between us to work, I would have to do my part. Not for you or me, but for us. I think that may have been the first flash of insight I've had in five months." She gave a self-deprecating laugh, and walked towards his couch to take a seat. He followed her and sat down beside her, his expression still intent, all his concentration still levelled at her.

"So I made an appointment at Bethesda." She wanted to take his hand in hers, but she thought the act would somehow show more than she was ready to reveal. Instead, she made herself look him in the eye. "A lot of things came out of the session. For one, I'll be seeing Commander McCool once a week." The second thing that had come out of her session with McCool was a realization of just how destructive her fixation on Clay was. A form of survivor's guilt, McCool had said, and not one that would just go away with Sadik's death. "And she gave me a bunch of info pamphlets on ... things. What to expect after Paraguay and … and Saturday." She swallowed her misgivings on revealing so much to him. It was like opening a bloody, infected, disfiguring, disgusting wound and asking him to take a look. "I have them in the car. I figured you'd want to read them."

She realized that he was staring at her, gaping, taken aback. It worried her. It did more than just worry her. Did he expect this all to be fixed in one session? Was he not ready to wait or put in 

the effort it would require to stick it out with her? Worse still, was he mad at her for needing time alone? Her stomach burned, her lungs felt too tight. She really fervently hoped not. The last time he was angry, it had cost her five months of absence. Please, she thought, unable to speak, don't bail on me now. Not now. Please. I came to you.

"You would let me read the information pamphlets?" His sudden response intruded into her thoughts.

She abruptly silenced her frantic reaction – she needed to stop just reacting without thinking when it came to him – and tried to calm down enough to process his question. He sounded as eager as she felt distressed. She swallowed the lump in her throat and nodded. She had made a promise to him, and she would honour it for both their sakes. She would do her part.

To her surprise, he broke out into the brightest grin she'd seen in months and pulled her into a fierce hug.

"Thank you, Mac." He whispered into her ear.

She was too overwhelmed by his words to even think of a response. Instead, she held him tightly. This was going to work. Everything would be fine.

--

Roberts' Residence

Saturday

1856 Local

Harm stood next to Mac on the Bud and Harriet's porch, waiting for someone to answer the door. He was not nervous. Just a bit ... apprehensive. Slightly guilty. But not nervous.

Mac had told him during their run together this morning that Bud had been asking constantly about him. She'd also told him as much at the grocery store on Saturday, during their free-for-all cage fight in the cereal aisle. He marvelled at the progress they had made since then. He was breathing a lot easier. Everything seemed brighter. He grinned, until he remembered he was standing on Bud and Harriet's porch.

Why the hell weren't they answering the door. He tightened his hold on the bag he was carrying. Bud had left a few messages on his machine, as had Harriet. He felt like a heel. He didn't yet know how to explain it to them. He hadn't really even explained it to Mac, and he trusted her more than anyone else.

Harm sighed.

He felt Mac nudge him in the side with her elbow. He looked down at her eyebrow raised, only to find her grinning brightly at him. He grinned in kind, unable to resist her good humour and not really wanting to try. He so badly wanted happiness for the two of them.

"It'll be fine, Harm." She squeezed his arm. "They love you."

Her words warmed him almost as much as the truth they held.

The door swung open to reveal Bud.

"Sir!" Bud exclaimed, a grin lit up his face.

Harm grinned in response, though still feeling a little uneasy. "Bud, I'm not in the Navy anymore. Call me Harm."

Bud didn't bother acknowledging that, he shook Harm's hand heartily instead.

"I'm sorry we didn't call first..." Harm began, only to be cut off by an enthusiastic Bud.

"Nonsense, Sir! Come in. Ma'am."

"Hi, Bud," Mac replied, her delight at the scene evident.

Harm handed Bud the gift bag he was holding. "Something for Jimmy, Bud. Congratulations." He said awkwardly, trying to quash his guilt.

"Thank you, Sir." Bud took the bag from Harm, his easygoing smile still in place and as genuine as ever.

Harriet came to the door and broke into a wide smile when she caught sight of Harm. She hurried forward and pulled him in for a hug. "Sir!"

"It's good to see you, Harriet." Before he could berate her for not calling her by his name or congratulate her on the newest addition, AJ ran down the hallway.

He squealed at the sight of Harm. "Uncle Harm! Uncle Harm!"

Harm laughed and caught his exuberant godson just in time as he flung himself up for a hug.

"I missed you, buddy." Harm threw AJ up in the air.

AJ, giggling with excitement, caught sight of Mac. "You brought Aunt Mac!"

"Actually, she brought me," Harm winked at Mac.

He held AJ, and looked at Bud and Harriet, feeling contrite. "I'm sorry I didn't return your calls."

"Don't worry about it, Sir." Bud waved away the apology. "We understand you were busy with the new job."

Harm didn't know how to explain that it was so much more than that. He'd been a mentor to Bud, the younger man had looked up to him. Harm wasn't quite yet ready to shatter that image, for his own sake. His unceremonious booting from JAG was still a bit too fresh.

"I see you found him, Ma'am." Harriet grinned at Mac as she greeted her with a hug.

"We found each other, Harriet." Mac replied, glancing at Harm with a small smile.

They heard a wail come from the kitchen.

Harriet laughed. "Poor Jimmy must be feeling left out. He can't wait to meet you, Sir." She looked to Harm, smiling warmly. He saw no trace of resentment or reproach in her eyes. He returned her smile, marvelling at the reception he was receiving.

"And I can't wait to meet him, Harriet." He remembered what he'd said to Mac at the grocery store last Saturday, when he'd wielded his anger like both sword and shield. If anything, he thought, friendship was highly underrated. He was one lucky man.

"Come in, come in." Bud ushered them in. "We were just about to have dessert, right AJ?" He looked at his son.

"Yeah!" AJ wiggled out of Harm's embrace, and jumped up and down on the floor. "Cookies and ice cream!"

"Ooh, my favourite." Mac grinned at AJ. He grabbed her hand and pulled her towards the kitchen.

"We have two kinds of ice cream, Aunt Mac! Two kinds!"

Harm laughed as he followed them down the hall.

"So, Sir." Bud said as they made their way to the kitchen. "How's the CIA?"

"Actually Bud, I'm no longer with the CIA." Harm replied, surprising himself by how easy it was to talk about being out of a job. "There are some sacrifices I'm just not willing to make," He grinned at Bud. His eyes drifted to Mac. She was walking hand in hand with AJ, smiling at the boy. She turned her head back slightly to catch Harm's eye, and offered a wide, happy grin.

"And others that I need to." He added under his breath, as he followed her into the kitchen.

He knew she still wasn't convinced he'd resigned from the CIA for the right reasons. He had to find a way to put that concern of hers to rest.


	8. Chapter 8

**Fallout**

Part 8

Disclaimer: Don't own'em

A/N: I don't think I'll be able to post tomorrow, so the last part's going up tonight. On another note, sometimes I wish I could see readers' reactions when they read some scenes – and there's one scene in this part that fits the bill … Oh, well. Let me know what you think.

Thanks for the comments/reviews, they are much appreciated.

--

JAG HQ

Monday

1039 Local

Mac eyed the stack of folders in front of her, and couldn't stop grinning. This was it. Things were finally falling into place, after endless weeks, after the longest five months in recent memory ... Things were finally falling into place. She picked up her phone and dialled Harm's cell number.

"Rabb." He answered after two interminable rings.

"Hey, Harm." Her grin widened at hearing his habitual reply.

"Mac!" He exclaimed, sounding very pleased. "How's your day going so far, Marine?"

"Actually," She began, her tone smug. "Something very interesting happened today."

"Really?" He replied, amused. He was playing along with her.

"How about I tell you about it over dinner?" She tried not to sound too enthusiastic, but failed.

"Now there's an offer I can't refuse." He flirted.

She wrapped the phone cord around her finger, and leaned back in her chair. She couldn't wait to share the news! But she really wanted to see his reaction in person.

"I'll make us reservations." He suggested. "How about that surf and turf place near my place you always go on about."

"Now there's an offer I can't refuse." This was shaping up to be a great day.

"And I have many more where that came from. Can you be at my place for around 1830? I'll make the reservations for 1900."

"Perfect."

"See you then, Marine."

"Bye, Harm."

--

Harm's Apartment

Monday

1735 Local

Mac knocked on Harm's front door and waited for him to answer. She was a bit – okay, very early, but she just had to share this news with him. It was too good to be true. She'd go to her place and change after she spoke to him. They still had plenty of time.

The front door opened to reveal Harm. To her surprise, he looked distinctly uncomfortable at the sight of her.

"Hey, Mac." His tone was a bit wary. She frowned.

"Am I interrupting something?" She asked, concerned by his response to her presence.

"Of course not, Mac." His smile was reserved. She could see that he was trying to put both of them at ease, and failing.

Her curiosity deepened. Harm opened the door fully and she was greeted with the sight of a pregnant woman.

"Ms. Gale." She was too surprised to hide her reaction. She hadn't realized Catherine knew Harm's home address, let alone visited him in the evenings. She hadn't considered it. In hindsight, she wondered why she hadn't. He'd called her his wife, after all, when they were down in Paraguay. And then worked with her…

"Colonel." Catherine replied. Her eyes flitted from Mac to Harm. Mac couldn't read her expression.

Mac looked back at Harm, but was confused by his apparent awkwardness.

"Catherine dropped by to say hi." Harm supplied. "She was ... away when I handed in my resignation to the CIA."

Mac nodded, and smiled at the woman. "How are you, Catherine? Pregnancy suits you."

"I'm well, and thank you." Catherine returned her smile, but there was an undercurrent of ... something.

Mac turned to Harm. "I can come back later, or meet you at the restaurant." She told him.

"No, Mac." He said quickly, almost desperately. "There's no need."

An uncomfortable suspicion began taking shape in the back of her mind. She shook it away, refused to let it take root.

She and Catherine both looked at Harm, while he just looked ill at ease. She felt the urge to laugh, just to break them out of this awkward moment. They were adults, for goodness sakes.

Finally, Harm spoke. "Catherine. I'll see you out." He gestured towards the front door.

"That's not necessary, Harm." Catherine didn't move.

Mac thought they sounded very formal with each other.

She watched the battle take place in Harm's eyes, and saw him surrender. He reluctantly asked, "Is there anything else you needed to talk about, Catherine."

"Well," She glanced at Mac. "It can wait."

Mac decided to remain silent. Don't ask questions, she told herself, and you won't have to listen to the answers. She wasn't about to touch this with a ten-foot pole.

"Alright, then. Let me see you out," Harm repeated his earlier offer.

This time, Catherine headed towards the door, and Harm followed. Mac watched the careful distance Harm maintained, and the formal manner in which he helped her with her coat. He was trying too hard not to touch her. It was unlike Harm to be so proper with anyone, let alone a woman, Mac thought.

"Goodnight, Harm." She glanced at Mac. "Mac."

"Bye, Catherine. Congratulations, again." She tried her best to smile as Harm closed the door on Catherine Gale's retreating form.

The door shut with an ominous click. Mac turned her gaze on Harm.

"I came early ... uh," She faltered, her thoughts still on the scene she'd just witnessed. She shook herself to the present. "I just had to share the good news with you." Her previous euphoria suddenly became a bit difficult to find.

"That's okay, Mac." She could detect the slight tension in his voice. "What's up?"

She watched Harm as he made his way to the couch, her thoughts drifting back to the stiff, stilted interactions between him and Catherine. She didn't recall them being so starchy with each other in Clay's hospital room.

She realized she'd remained silent and lost in thought for too long when she heard Harm address her.

"You want to ask me." He stated.

"Ask you what." She hedged.

He gave her a look that let her know he wasn't going to let her off the hook. "If I slept with her."

Mac braced herself. She shrugged.

"It's none of my business."

"Mac." His tone held a warning.

"I don't want to talk about it." She insisted, knowing she sounded mildly juvenile, but not really caring. She couldn't help but feel that things were so delicate right now. She couldn't help but feel insecure about his feelings in all this. She didn't want it all to come crashing down. "I don't want to know."

"It's not my kid." Harm stated bluntly, his eyes fixed on hers.

"I didn't think it was." He looked confused by her response, so she elaborated. "If it was your kid, you would not have booted the mother out the door the moment I came in."

"I did not boot her out!" He defended, sounding alarmed.

She gave him a disbelieving look. "Then what do you call that?" She waved her hand towards the door.

"Politely bidding her farewell." He failed in his attempt at looking innocent.

Mac snorted in response.

"Alright, Ms. Manners, enough of that." He grinned at her, and she felt just a little bit more secure. He then deftly changed the topic, much to her relief. She really did not want to know about his previous relationship with Catherine Gale. Not now, when things were still so dauntingly tenuous.

"What's so important that you couldn't wait until dinner?" He asked, eyebrow raised expectantly.

She handed him a file. "Remember Caroline Imes?"

"Yeah." His eyebrow inched higher, this time with arrogance. "I beat her six times running."

"Not that you're counting." She gave him an exasperated look.

His grin widened in response.

"She's not a real lawyer." Mac revealed, and waited for his reaction.

"I could've told you that." He laughed at her warning expression, and put his hands up in a mock gesture of surrender. "Sorry, sorry. I'll be serious."

"She didn't take the bar." Mac explained. "All her cases are being reviewed. We're short-staffed and you handled a few cases with her. So ... the Admiral needs your help!" Mac finished triumphantly.

"What?" His eyes widened in shock.

She nodded, grinning. "You can come back. To consult on these cases, but I think he will offer to re-instate you. You'd have to start at the beginning in a way, but you'd be back in."

"What?" He repeated dumbly.

She grinned and took a seat next to him. She shook his arm excitedly. "Harm, this is great news!"

"What?" He stood up, paced. Opened his mouth, hesitated, and then finally spoke. "No. No. I won't do it. No."

A part of her had expected this to be his initial reaction.

"Harm. Starting at the beginning isn't all bad." She tried to convince him, and then repeated for good measure: "You'd be back in the Navy." He couldn't be holding on to that much resentment, could he?

"I'm not coming back." He stated.

"What do you mean you're not coming back." She knew that tone. She couldn't believe it. Things were supposed to be falling into place.

"No." He shook his head resolutely, stubbornly.

She stared at him. It wasn't supposed to happen like this. Things were supposed to fall into place.

--

She was just staring at him like he'd lost him mind. It was making him feel slightly uncomfortable.

"What do you mean, Harm?" She persisted. "Why?"

"Mac." He began, and then stopped not knowing how to explain it to her without revealing his hand.

"Harm." She prodded, insistent.

"I..." He trailed off again.

"Harm. You can't just avoid the man. If nothing else, I work with him. Bud and Harriet do. Sturgis does. Our godson is named after him, Harm. You'll run in to him at social functions. You aren't the type to avoid people ..." She paused and grinned mischievously. "Well, except me."

He tried to smile in response, knowing that she was trying to lighten the situation. But he wasn't ready for humour just yet. He was serious about this.

"It's not that." He defended. "I won't lie and say everything will just smooth over with the Admiral, but it's not that."

"Harm." The scepticism in her voice was tangible.

"It's not, Mac." He insisted.

"You're angry with him, don't deny it."

"So what if I am, Mac." He felt his patience crack as he remembered the way Chegwidden had acted when he'd requested leave, and the way he'd acted when he'd come back with Mac. "Dammit, he was ready to just leave you down there."

She didn't respond, but he saw a barely noticeable shift in her demeanour. She hadn't come to terms with it either, apparently. His anger dissipated, replaced by concern.

"Mac..." He reached for her hand. "Mac, I didn't mean to bring it up like that..."

She shook her head, her lips pursed, her eyes fixed on her lap. He could see the effort she was putting into being stoic.

"It's alright, Harm. It's going to come up. A lot is." She took a breath and met his gaze. "I agreed to go on the mission, Harm. I knew what that entailed."

He stared at her, not sure how to react to that. She broke the silence with another deep breath.

"This is going to have to go on the list of things we have to work on." She said finally.

He would concede that point. After all, the more they dealt with, the more would be dealt with. He wondered how many people carried so much baggage into a relationship. Not that we was complaining, not after it took them so long to get to this point. Not after he'd lost hope that they ever would get to this point.

"Mac. I was upset with Chegwidden," He caught her reproving glance and amended. "Alright. I still am upset, but I'll get over it." He saw that she still didn't believe him, so he elaborated.

"Truth is, Mac, what I told you on Sunday still holds. And I was upset that he processed my resignation, but ... but ..." He was having a hard time confessing this. "I was more upset about the termination of something else at the time."

She started at the revelation and looked away. Her eyes dropped to her lap.

"No, wait, Mac. I'm not saying this to lay blame or anything. It's the plain truth."

She nodded, but still wasn't meeting his eye.

"I wasn't expecting him to process my resignation. And it just added to my frustration. It was a bit much, all of it at once. I thought you ... well, that doesn't matter now. But losing the only other thing that really mattered to me, in addition to losing, or so I thought, the one thing that really mattered more than anything else ... and losing the chance to ... But I understand now, where you were coming from." He paused, but couldn't see her face or her reaction. That made him nervous. "Or at least, I understand better than I did. I think. Mostly."

She laughed softly at that, and brought her eyes to his. He responded with a sheepish grin, knowing he wasn't being his most eloquent at the moment.

"And I think after working for so many years under his command," Harm continued. "The Admiral and I can come to an understanding. He's the one who's offering me back the job."

"You saw him as more than just a CO, Harm." She pointed out gently.

"Doesn't mean I can't work under his command. Besides, I was an ass to you for five months, Mac. Do you think less of me?"

She opened her mouth to answer.

"Wait!" He quickly cut in to prevent her from responding, suddenly panicked. "I'm not sure if I want to hear the answer to that."

She broke into an amused grin. "You're funny. And for the record, I don't think less of you." Her expression turned serious. "And you weren't an ass. You were just ... disappointed. I understand, Harm."

He studied her carefully, and found that he believed her. A weight he hadn't realized he was carrying lifted from his shoulders.

"Do you think less of me?" She asked in return, returning his studious gaze.

He couldn't help himself. He grinned. "Never."

She laughed and smacked his shoulder. "I take it back, you're not funny."

He watched her as she laughed, the sparkle in her eyes, the lilt in her voice. He couldn't go back to JAG.

"I can't go back."

Her laughter ended abruptly. "What? Why? You just the Admiral ..."

"No. I mean, yes, I know what I said. But, thing is … we, you and I that is, we can't work under the same chain of command when we're ... when we're ... involved..." He was appalled to find himself stuttering. He resisted the urge to pace. Instead, he wrapped his hands around hers and held on tight.

"We're the same rank, Harm. We can. It's not fraternizing, you know that." She stated, frowning.

"Mac." He sounded mildly exasperated.

She looked at him blankly. "What?" She really didn't get it, he realized.

"I ... I ..." He let out a frustrated breath. "I want us to be, I mean ... I want to, to ..." He stood up, finally giving in to his urge to pace.

"Spit it out, Harm. This is the best thing that could happen for you. It's your foot in the door to get back into the Navy."

"No." He stopped pacing. "The Navy is not the best thing that could happen. And I, we can't just think about me. We talked about this. I said I wanted to spend the rest of my life with you. I meant that."

"What does that have to do with you coming back to JAG? We won't let work get between us. It'll take some getting used to, some adjusting, but I don't doubt we can do it. Not after ..." She waved her hand between them, her voice suddenly sombre, hesitant. "Everything."

"It's not that. I don't doubt we can do it, either." He replied with conviction.

"Then what is it?" He could see by her body language that she was getting increasingly confused and mildly frustrated.

"If I come back to JAG, then – in the long term – that could prove to be difficult." He said this slowly, hoping she would understand the subtext.

"Difficult how?" She frowned, searching his face for a clue. "I don't understand."

"Mac." How exasperating! She really wasn't getting it.

She waited patiently, in silence.

"If I come back to JAG, then I ... then we ..." He stopped, hesitated. He sat down next to her and took both her hands in his. "Okay, look. Let me start over." He took a deep breath. "When I said I wanted to spend the rest of my life with you, I meant, uh, you know." He faltered.

"You meant it, I know, Harm." She assured him quickly. "Look, ultimately, whatever you want to do you have my full support. I would not give you any less. I just, I know how much the Navy means to you. How much your wings mean to you. You can have it all back, and we can move forward from there, you and I."

"Okay." He began slowly. "What do you see for us, in moving forward?"

She stared at him blankly. "Uh ... What do you mean?"

"You haven't given it much thought, have you?" He grinned at her expression.

"Well. I mean, a lot has happened..."

"No, Mac." He squeezed her hands in reassurance. He could hardly blame her. They'd gone from 0 to Mach 3 in just over a week. "I know. But one of us has to think about the future. Usually that's your job" He grinned at her. "But since I'm in-between careers, I thought I'd give it a try for once."

She smiled slightly, but he could see she was still not following. "And what conclusions did you reach?"

"I want to, I mean, I want us – I want _us_ – to be married." Her face transformed into a mask of shock. "I want to marry you." He rushed out. "That's what I mean by spending the rest of my life with you. I want ... It doesn't have to be now. Or soon, if you don't want. Your timeline. It's your timeline." He forced himself to stop, not knowing what else to say without rambling like an idiot. He hadn't exactly wanted the first and only proposal he ever gave to be so, so ... clumsy, tactless.

She stared at him and spoke very slowly, as though she was processing this information out loud. "And you coming back to JAG would make ma – mar – uh, that difficult."

He nodded, and held his breath. It didn't bode well if she couldn't even say the word. Did it? He couldn't be sure.

She searched his face. "You want to get m ... married? To me?"

He nodded again, but this time couldn't keep the unabashedly happy smile from his face. The words sounded good in her voice.

"I want to marry you, Sarah. I want you to marry me."

She blinked once, twice. She grinned. She bit her lip. She laughed. She launched herself at him and hugged him tightly. He more than gladly reciprocated.

"So that's an okay?" He ventured. "I mean, that one day we'll get married."

She pulled back to look at him, grinning uncontrollably. "You do realize we haven't even shared an honest kiss?"

He sobered at her remark, but the smile never left his face. He ran his fingers along her cheek, over her lips.

"Everything I've ever shared with you has been nothing less than honest."

He thought he saw tears gather in her eyes. She sighed, her expression full of tenderness.

"I love you, Mac. I don't need to kiss you to know that. But," He sighed dramatically. "If it means that much to you, we can remedy the situation right now."

She grinned, but her eyes took on a depth he rarely saw. She leaned towards him, her eyes not leaving his.

"Yes, please." She whispered.

He watched her as her face neared his. He knew he would never forget this moment of anticipation; the way she looked in the soft glow of his apartment, the way her skin smelled of jasmine, the way her eyes held his heart.

He bent his head to meet her halfway, felt her soft, warm lips against his. He closed his eyes and savoured how she felt, how she tasted.

She pulled back, and it took him a moment to open his eyes. She was watching him, her expression serious.

"What?" He asked, still a bit dazed by the situation. Mac had just agreed to marry him, hadn't she? Had she?

"I still think you should come back to JAG."

"What?" That snapped him out the stupor her kissed had steeped him into. "But what about, I mean..."

"Wait." She put her hand on his cheek. "Hear me out."

He nodded, a bit distracted by her touch, still not completely believing that she'd accepted his offer of marriage.

"Once you're reinstated in the Navy, you'll be right back where you were, right? We don't have to get, uh, married," She tripped over the word, causing him to grin. "Any time soon. Once you're back in, we can look at our options." She paused and studied him for a moment before continuing. "I hate how this happened to you, Harm. You didn't resign because you wanted out. You resigned because you didn't think you had any other choice—"

"I knew I didn't have any other choice, Mac." He corrected her.

"That may be so, but you didn't think Chegwidden would actually process your papers. At least this way you'll ... this will give you back your choice, Harm."

"You feel guilty." He realized. "You feel responsible."

"I am, Harm." She state categorically.

"No, Mac." He replied forcefully. "What you said in the grocery store was true. I made my choice. I had no right to be angry when things didn't go my way."

"Harm, you just said you had no choice." She pointed out.

"That's not what I meant." He couldn't believe they'd gone from marriage proposal to disagreement in less than a minute. Well, maybe he could. He could also admit that he loved how she looked when she was being stubborn about something. He was going to marry Mac. Mac was going to marry him.

"Would you have resigned if the mission in Paraguay hadn't gone wrong?" He focused his attention back on Mac when he realized that she was using her cross-examination tone on him.

He shook his head reluctantly.

"Then it wasn't your decision, it was the situation." Now she was using her closing argument voice on him.

"Mac. That's—"

"Hear me out, Harm. I don't want you regretting anything about us. About getting married. To me," She added almost as an afterthought. He couldn't help but grin at the thought, and at how much difficulty she was having at processing it. He was going to marry Mac.

"I wouldn't regret anything, Mac." He trailed his hand over hers where it rested on his cheek, and then encircled her wrist with his fingers.

She raised her eyebrow. "Can you be sure?"

"Yes," He stated firmly. Mac was going to marry him. He gave her his most dashing smile.

She laughed. "You're acting on your emotions, Harm."

"Nothing wrong with that, Mac." He was being completely serious. A part of him wished that her childhood had been different, that it hadn't made her so guarded and analytical towards life.

"Do you want to come back to the Navy, all else aside?" She persisted.

"That's not a fair question." He protested. "The rules of engagement have changed. I have you, I don't need the Navy."

"Forget about need." She shook her head, placing her free hand on his shoulder. "You can _have_ both, Harm."

That gave him pause. He studied her. Truthfully, she was making it sound more and more appealing.

He pointed his finger at her and shook his head, grinning. She could be so impossibly stubborn at times. "You." He said, and shook his head again, one eyebrow raised. He was going to have such fun being married to her.

She grinned, and grabbed his finger. "So you'll come back to JAG?"

"Are you sure, Mac?" He searched her face.

"I want you to be happy, Harm." She replied sincerely. "The Navy, your wings ... it's important to you, and the way it was taken from you wasn't fair. You won't be happy if that's how your career in the Navy ended. If it was cut short, and not on your terms."

He grinned again, and shook his head at her. "You are something else, Mac."

"I'll take that as a compliment." She informed him.

"I wouldn't have it any other way, Marine."

She let out a deep breath and flopped back onto the couch. "God, it's exhausting talking sense into you."

"And I'll take that as a compliment." He replied, eyebrows raised in amusement as he watched her prone form draped over his couch.

"Of course you would." She grinned impishly at him. They both laughed.

She sat up suddenly. "Come on, let's go celebrate."

"What?" He was startled by her unexpected burst of enthusiasm. He hadn't seen her like this in too long. It made him realize how worried she had been over his resignation from JAG. "Where? Doing what?"

"I don't care." She pulled his arm. "Let's just go do something. I'm in the mood to go do something."

He laughed at her eagerness. "We do have reservations for dinner, remember?" He glanced at his watch. "In twenty minutes."

"I need to go home and change out of uniform." She stood up to leave, and he followed her.

"You won't make it in time." He pointed out. "We'll miss our reservations for tonight."

She paused and turned around suddenly to look at him, her expression contemplative. "Tomorrow's another day." She said slowly.

He studied her for a moment, before the meaning behind her words registered. He then broke into a grin, unable to restrain his happiness, and took her hand in his. "Tomorrow's another day." He confirmed. "And the night is still young. I'll come with you to your place. We can find another restaurant to go to."

She looked up at him, her eyes warmed with sincerity, "Thank you, Harm."

He brushed a quick kiss on her lips. "Come on, Marine." He smiled at her. "Let's go celebrate..." He trailed off, searching for a fitting word – they had so much to celebrate. Mac was going to marry him, he laughed, momentarily forgetting what it was he was supposed to be thinking about.

"New beginnings?" She supplied readily, her expression mirrored his.

"And old friendships." He added, pulling her closer and putting his hands on her waist. He was going to spend the rest of his life with this woman.

She brightened even further at his response. She placed her hands on his chest and stepped closer to him. "And love."

"Always love, Mac." He lowered his head for another kiss. "Always love." He whispered against her lips.

--

--

end – or rather, the show goes on and season 9 is a gazillion times more fun to watch.


End file.
